Flower in the Attic
by The Art of Suicide
Summary: A tale of angst and woe in which a little dead girl bites off more than she can chew. Alternate Universe. Role-Reversal. Roleplay Format. Please read the author's note at the beginning and heed the M rating.
1. Chapter 1

**IMPORTANT, PLEASE READ!** What follows is a copied-and-pasted tumblr roleplay between **stupidsecrets** and myself(tumblr tag: **xxx-strangeandunusual-xxx**/**xxx-theartofsuicide-xxx**). She is playing as Lydia, me as BJ. Because of the nature of roleplay, the point of view changes often and you will see each event as it was perceived by our renditions of these characters. It's being posted here so that we can have a comprehensive archive to look back on and reread easily rather than having to dig through tumblr. Please be warned going in that this may never have a clean or concise ending as that is not the point of roleplay.

**Reminder that this was something that was meant to be fun, not judged. Therefore constructive criticism is not welcome.**

* * *

**Flower in the Attic**

* * *

A man's home is his castle. That's what mama used to say, to both Lydia and her father. Lydia, when she was tired of being bedridden, and Charles, over the phone as she sobbed on the kitchen floor. Always staying overnight on a business trip. When Lydia was alive, she had been sickly from the day she was born. That's what her mama had said, too, brushing her long, black hair through as she read a bedtime story. Because of this, she'd been home-schooled, home-fed, home-bound.

Constantly. Home, home, home. Her mama's saying never really soothed her. All it meant was that at least at home, she could do what she liked‒ but she couldn't do what she liked. Lydia had migraines, stomach pains, low strength and a tiny frame that barely held her own weight, tummy always too upset to stomach much food. She couldn't dance, or play, or do anything except sit and read.

But... really, she was happy. She had mama. Mama loved her like nothing else. She let her meet the neighbors even though she wasn't really supposed to go outside, she dressed her up in the most beautiful outfits for her tea parties, she was always talking about her on the phone. Though she was always cold, mama's love warmed her heart.

It wasn't her fault Lydia could only leave the house a handful of times a year. Mama fed her and held her hair back when her tummy refused it. She drove her to the doctor and consoled her when they couldn't find what was wrong. Mama was her world, and she was mama's.

Lydia knew that daddy was busy. That was why she accepted his many, many gifts of toys in all shapes and sizes‒ porcelain dolls, giant teddy bears, ornate jewelry boxes. Even when he was barely home for months on end, Lydia had mama, and all of her toys... At least mama never left her side.

Death took that away from her.

Lydia was always sure she would die sooner rather than later from the moment she understood its concept. She'd been sickly from the day she was born, right? Naturally, that sickness would be her downfall. But watching the little ant-sized people all dressed in black from the roof, she'd never felt more lonely - and after that moment, the feeling never left her.

At the end of it all, Lydia's death was far too similar to how her life had been. Stuck in that house, hosting tea parties and wearing frilly dresses, reading each book from cover to cover. Sometimes people would move in, but they would never stay for long. Lydia found that they often wouldn't go near the attic. The house's reputation preceded itself‒ it was haunted and creepy, so maybe a locked door needed to stay locked, and that was fine with her.

She'd hide away in the attic with her dolls and her bears and her toys, infrequently spying on the families occupying her house. It felt wrong to peek into their lives so rudely... but the main reason for her avoidance was that she couldn't stand it.

They were always so frightfully happy, and joyous, and free, and healthy. All the things Lydia had never been able to be. She'd discovered the extent of her ghostly powers after witnessing one mother lovingly teaching her daughter how to cook‒ in a jealous tantrum, she'd smashed half a dozen glasses and one of the cabinet windows. Mama had never, ever let her near the kitchen. But at least she knew she could do more with her time than just read the same books over and over.

Now a new family was moving in again. As per usual, Lydia watches curiously through her attic window at the car that pulls up behind the large U-Haul van, her most recent favorite doll tucked neatly in her arms, purple lace and frills splayed out over her legs and hair falling endlessly over her shoulders. This family could easily be the least happy she'd seen moving into her house so far. Lydia worries her lip. This house was _her _castle.

* * *

"So tell me again why I have to go to this bullshit sausage fest all guys school, Ruth? I'm not a faggot like Davey."

"_Don't talk about David that way—"_

"_Shut your mouth before I ship you off to military school, you little shit—"_

Benjamin James, BJ to his friends of which were few and predominantly virtual, snorted dismissively as they pulled up to the rinky-dink remodeled farmhouse in this middle-of-nowhere shithole town, unintimidated by the threats. The place was worth more than it cost, apparently. Davey, whose temple vein never failed to throb when his delinquent stepson referred to him as such, was apparently really fucking stingy about that kind of shit even though his pockets were stacked with leftovers from some fat settlement check he'd cashed years before meeting Ruth.

Something about class action, asbestos in the factory he worked in, blah blah blah yadda yadda. BJ couldn't bother himself to file away the details. Davey wouldn't last long. None of them did. He was husband number six, and it was only a matter of time until Ruth sucked him dry and went on the hunt for number seven.

Content to leave her to her work, her son slammed the car door shut as he got out and muscled his way past the movers to get to his own boxes, stacked up strategically at the back of the truck so that he could have his first pick of rooms. No one would be arguing with him on that.

"Don't touch my shit," he snarled at the weaker hired help, heaving two worn boxes marked **FUCK OFF** onto his shoulders. He was the first through the doors, hustling from room to room with heavy, thumping steps to appraise which area might make a fitting lair. The master was big enough, he guessed, but right across the hall from where Mommy Dearest would end up staying with her current cunt plug.

There had to be a basement or an attic around here somewhere… _please, merciful Satan in Hell…_

He spotted his salvation at the top of an almost too narrow staircase toward the end of the hall. There was a door there, but it didn't budge when he jostled the handle. Impatient, already pissed off that he was standing there wrestling with this door at all, he dropped his boxes carelessly and bodily slammed his entire form into the locked annoyance; all six foot ten, three-hundred and fifty pounds of him.

To be fair, it wasn't all muscle. A healthy portion of chub coated him all over, but he was hardly looking to impress anybody.

The deadbolt snapped right through the creaking frame with that immense push, splattering shards of wood forward into the room. No big deal. He had a plethora of his own heavy-duty locks ready to install to any door that became his.

_What the fuck…?_

Jade eyes slowly gaped open as they took in the eerie scene before him. It was a cliché straight out of a shitty horror movie. There was an attic up here alright, already half-filled with many dusty boxes, several of them scattered and open throughout the drafty space. An unmade tiny princess bed was settled beneath the window. It would probably shatter if he sat on it.

The piece de resistance, however, was the round dainty table at the very center of the room. Large, but delicate in its craftsmanship, it housed a circle of stuffed animals and porcelain dolls. Each toy kept a little teacup and plate, an antique hand-painted pot at the center of the setting. Just one seat was left empty, though the spot didn't lack a plate or cup. This was not dusty or unkempt. It was as though it had been moved in the night before and was just waiting for some little princess like Davey to come along and join the party.

Despite the bizarre welcoming, this was clearly the best room in the house and therefore his. If Ruth or fucknugget had a problem with it, they could take it up with his middle finger.

"HEY DAVEY," he shouted down the steps jovially after picking through one of the mystery boxes and finding it filled with even more porcelain dolls. Always looking to heckle where he could, he called out, "SOMEBODY MUSTA KNEW YOU WERE COMIN'! THEY GOT A BONA FIDE TEA PARTY SET UP HERE FOR YA!"

With that and a harsh, obnoxious gale of laughter, he chucked the box downstairs, watching with sadistic satisfaction as fragile porcelain cracked and scattered over the bottom landing. Good luck getting him to clean up _that _mess.

* * *

Even through the little window, Lydia could see they were arguing about something. The family seemed to be made up of a petite, mousy little woman, dressed in a way that made her wrinkle her nose, and two men. One, fairly uninteresting– middle-aged, angry, a receding hairline– and the other quite possibly the most intimidating person she'd ever seen. Heavy-set and almost comically tall, Lydia's freezing stomach pooled with dread. Though he appeared much younger than the older male, he was clearly the man of the house (king of the castle comes to her mind, and it's almost funny– it would've been if his footsteps weren't so loud), the first to pass the threshold and take his pick of the rooms.

The master bedroom was big, and her room had been tiny. It was a three-bedroom house. Lydia was more than sure that if he were to pick any room, it'd be the master, and that like every family before them, they'd leave the attic alone. She decided that she'd leave this entire family alone too, in fact, and never peep on them once until they left.

Even still, each step he took felt like a stone settling in her belly. She lifted herself off the bed, eyes trailing fretfully to focus on the door, hands shaking with agitated trepidation as she hid behind the 'life-sized' dusty teddy bear resting in the room's corner. Not that he would be able to see her if he did somehow have the key and opened the door, but with her back pressed up against the wall and with only her head peeking out, she felt a lot safer.

Thumping footsteps up the attic stairs. Lydia feels her fists clench and her toes curl, holding a breath she doesn't need to hold.

The doorknob rattles.

A pause. The sound of something going down the stairs and Lydia lets out her breath in a sigh of relief before nearly screaming when the door slams open and consequently splinters, wood clattering to the floor. With the sickening crack still ringing in her ears, she looks on in horror at the behemoth of a man standing in the doorway to her room, feeling naked and terrified as he seems to soak in the sight of her tea party. When he speaks, it makes her jump – and then she lurches forward toward him when he begins to touch things.

That box was full of all her most fragile dolls, the ones she didn't want to set out for fear of breaking; when he flings it down the stairs she does scream, not waiting for the nauseating shatter before she immediately swings her fists at his chest.

"STOP IT, STOP IT, _STOP IT!"_ Lydia shrieks, not realizing her weak hits are actually landing on him in wake of her overflowing anger. "GET OUT! DON'T TOUCH THEM! THIS PLACE ISN'T FOR YOU, YOU… YOU _BRUTE!"_

* * *

He heard her before he felt or saw her; a pretty voice, young and feminine, though any sweetness was lost in its shrieking and whining. Weaker than a flyswatter punches were pelted against his gut in a rapid patter, and he aimed a perplexed look down at the walking, talking porcelain doll upset at him for roughing up her friends.

"… how the Hell did you get in here…?"

He scratched his head like the confused oaf he was, absolutely baffled. The door had been locked from the inside. Was there some sort of secret route the little brat could've used to crawl and squeeze her way in? But then what about all of her things? Unless they weren't her things and she was just using this place as some sort of clubhouse.

Oh well. Too bad, so sad. This was _his _clubhouse now.

"RUTH!" He shouted down the stairs, not even acknowledging the pipsqueak one-on-one as he hefted her up by the back of her dress, holding her aloft over the staircase as though he meant to drop and crack this porcelain doll as well. "THERE'S A SQUATTER IN MY ROOM! IT'S LIKE… TWELVE. AND A CHICK. COME TAKE CARE OF IT OR SOMETHING!"

He drew her back inside once his mother divided some attention away for this, large fake breasts staying perfectly in place as she jogged up the steps.

"Jesus, Benny, it's so _dusty _up here…" This was the only complaint she had. Far be it from her to make the master bedroom look more attractive to him. "Now what're ya talkin' about? What squatter? Where?"

"Here!" He shook a fist full of frills at his blind mother, hardly believing her stupidity.

Ruth slowly looked between his fist and his face, back and forth back and forth, concern beginning to creep in the longer the pause carried on. Tentatively, she stepped forward, reaching up to place a manicured palm on his forehead.

"You feelin' okay, Benny? Need a nap or somethin'? I know it's been a long couple days…"

"I'm fine!"

Did she really not see? He brandished the little intruder again, only for his jaw to go lax and eyes wide. She was gone. He wasn't holding anything. Ruth's frown deepened and she passed a burning cigarette from her own mouth to her son's, then pat his cheek lightly in parting.

"Take it easy, baby. There's no rush. _You'll love it here, I'm sure…_"

_Useless bitch._ He slammed the door shut behind her then growled around the filter, turning a narrow, hateful glare on the room.

"I know you're in here… n' I'm _gonna _find ya… so ya might as well just show yourself."

* * *

The moment he touches her - acknowledges her at all, even - Lydia goes dead still, eyes as big as saucers as he stared at her.

She stared back, lip quivering, hands frozen in their balled fists on his chest.

"You can s-see-?!" She squeaks and then shrieks as he lifts her up by the back of her dress, thrashing around weakly in his ridiculously strong grip. God, his booming yell rattled her bones - she was sure that some of the other dolls in those boxes were shattering just at his voice - and it was hard to concentrate as she squirmed, trying to yank her dress from his hand.

When the woman from before makes her way up the stairs, Lydia takes a deep breath in the silence and slips free, quickly returning to her hiding spot behind the bear, praying her invisibility had returned. She needed to collect herself. It seemed like he had angered her so much that she'd somehow become corporeal - which was new and frightening, naturally, but enthralling.

The cogs turned hard in her pretty little head, working fast, powered on fear. That book that she'd found once she'd died explained (probably explained, it was incredibly difficult to read) that if she got a living human to... _marry _her, she'd be free from the shackles dying in this house had put on her. Finally, she could go and be with mama again... But how on Earth was she supposed to marry this violent, terrifying lug of a human? Let alone convince him to help her?

She cowers behind the bear, worrying her lip and clutching at her skirt.

The man - Benny, she'd caught the lady saying - was now alone again, the woman she could only assume was his mother trodding back downstairs. Lydia hadn't gotten an amazing look at that lady, but she'd been... nightmarishly plastic-looking. There was no resemblance (left?) between the two of them besides the roots of their hair. She shivers. Everyone always said she looked like a dolly version of her mama, and she'd never want to change that. Clearly, Benny's mama didn't think the same.

When he slams the door Lydia jolts again, watching him behind her bear. He wouldn't _really _find her. She was invisible and dead... _Right?_

But... she didn't want him to break any more of her dolls. Their lives were as precious as hers had been to her mama. They were her duty to take care of - and she felt she needed to try to convince him to at least strike a deal to bring her closer to the possibility of marriage...

Reluctantly, and with all of the confidence she can muster, Lydia floats to the middle of the room and concentrates hard on trying to be corporeal again. With little idea of whether or not it's actually working, she looks him in the eyes (though she's a good two feet off the ground, she's really only eye level) and opens her mouth to talk. Alice, her doll, rests in her arms.

"I died here," she starts, voice as mysterious and stable and ghostly as she can manage. It's high-pitched and quivering.

"I am the ghost of this house... and I've been here for much longer than you will ever be. You are not welcome here, Benjamin. Unless you... pay a price."

Her dead heart feels like it would be leaping in her chest. Lydia can't help but feel smart for that one. Everyone's scared of ghosts, right? The 'Benjamin' part she'd guessed - hoping against hopes his nickname was shortened as opposed to just being a sweet way of saying Ben - but if it was right, she'd be successfully creepy for sure. Even if he ran away in terror from her traumatizing display, at least she wouldn't be bothered again, and it'd make him look crazy. A little smile pulls at her grayed lips at the thought.

* * *

That was one _Hell _of an entrance. She reappeared levitating, amazingly, impossibly, quickly robbing the mortal of any silly notions that the girl was anything as common or boring as a squatter.

_I died here._

BJ grinned. Any intended effects by the girl were lost on the charmed boy as he slowly circled her while she spoke, even waving his arm over her head to make absolutely sure there weren't any invisible wires. Nope. This was the real deal, an actual, genuine as he lived and breathed _ghost_.

Maybe Winter River, Connecticut wouldn't be so boring after all.

What a _tiny _thing she was, floating there and making threats against him. Remembering the way she beat at him in the midst of that temper tantrum, his grin widened sharply, reminiscent of a shark that had just scented the blood of wounded prey. _Never bullshit a bullshitter, kid._

"Not welcome, huh? Gotta pay a _toll?"_

He came to a pause right before her, closer than where he was when she began her initial speech.

"Or _what?"_ He snorted, genuinely amused and not a bit scared, childishly boinging one of the perfect spiral curls at the end of a pigtail. "Y'gonna beat me up again, lil' bit? Didn't anyone ever teach you violence is never the answer?"

This was a deeply hypocritical lesson to impart upon the girl for him in particular, having often been suspended from school for physical altercations that definitely totally weren't at all his fault. It probably wasn't smart of him to call her bluff like this, in case he was fatally wrong, but no one had ever accused him of being intelligent.

"Nah," he sucked on his smoke, delighting in the falter that rippled over her carefully schooled countenance at his easy dismissal of her half-hearted demands. "I got a better idea. See, this is _my _house now…"

A large, sharp pocketknife made itself known in a flash. He was tempted to trace it over her tiny neck, just to flex a little, and so he did. What was it gonna do? _Kill her?!_ He was horribly amused by the concept, so completely thrilled by this turn of events that he wasn't even insulted or annoyed by her slights against him. He _did _break her little dollies, and that wasn't very nice.

The knife only pressed light enough to sate his curiosity before he wandered to a supportive beam, carving out his moniker into the aged wood, deep and dark and slow so it could never be sanded out; **BJ**.

"_My_ room. Look. It's got my name on it. Now, this is what's gonna happen. You're gonna be a good girl n' be nice to me, or I'm gonna personally gut each and every one of your lil baby girl stuffies and replace their innards with crushed glass."

The tip of the blade tapped against the doll's in her arms porcelain cheek, the hollow clink it made making the other half of the threat imminently clear.

"All this shit?" He gestured at the many boxes taking up a good third of the room, then the table and bed, everything that belonged to the dead girl. "It has to _go_. Ain't no room for it, n' my shit takes precedence. Yer lucky I'm not kickin' _you _out too, dead girl."

He didn't know how, even if he wanted to, which he was strangely finding he very much did not‒ but it was fun to threaten anyway.

"I'm a nice guy like that. In fact, I'm _so _nice that Imma let you keep one dolly like that," the knife pointed at the doll in her arms, "n' one stuffed animal. Ain't that generous? Guy like me lettin' pussy shit like that stay in my room? Ain't exactly a good look, kitten. Aesthetics, y'know? Now we got a deal or not?"

He crossed his arms, leaning against a wall and sucking a deep drag from his smoke, making the cherry flare-up.

"'Benjamin' was my old man, by the way." He cocked another grin at her, just as cruel and delighted as the others had been, the flash of a sharp canine catching a stray beam of light. "You can call me BJ."


	2. Chapter 2

Did he… really have to act so predatorial? What was it about her that was so glaringly unintimidating?

Her heart sank She could feel her heart sink lower and lower into her chest as he circled her. It was just like those animals that she'd seen on the discovery channel... And he had the least scared face she'd ever seen in her life – a jolt of fear shot down _her _spine instead when she caught sight of his grin. He was grinning. Like she was some sort of amusing spectacle and not a terrifying – if not terrifying, at least _creepy _– fully visualized ghost floating before him. Lydia tried incredibly hard to stand her ground (or, as it were, air), barely even moving back when he comes to a stop far too close before her, only flinching a little when he touches her hair.

Lydia hadn't been prepared for these feelings whatsoever. Nobody had touched her at all for over a decade. Nobody had looked at her at all for over a decade. If being addressed by him wasn't enough fuel for her to be scared even without his alarmingly calm demeanor, those words – and then, far too quickly, that knife – would've been enough to drive Lydia to cry for mama in life. But mama was gone.

"I-I-!" She begins to start, determination rushing back with the reminder of why she'd revealed herself in the first place – though her words don't make it out. Instead, her eyes flood and her throat constricts and blossoms into singing pain following the minimal force of his hand. Panic and shock flood her system alongside it and she drops clumsily to the floor the moment the pressure is gone, Alice clattering to the floor.

Her hand encloses around her throat fast enough to feel the wound sew itself shut under her fingers.

Despite the unnecessary and horrifying pain, watching him carve his initials carelessly into the very foundation of her home – _her sanctuary_ – and listening to him threaten and completely disregard the last of her worldly possessions hurt so much more. There would've been the same outcome if he had just lodged that knife into her belly and twisted it around until it fell out.

Her jaw wobbles, her fists grip so hard in her dress that her knuckles turn white, her eyes squeeze shut, and she sucks on her bottom lip, but even after these efforts, Lydia begins to sob. She pulls Alice back into her arms and childishly curls up around her, crying up at BJ, tiny and defenseless.

The first actual interaction she has with anyone since she died, and he demolishes her entire world within minutes. What was the point of threatening her dolls if he was to uproot them anyway? There was no other place for them, nor her, besides here. It was all only to be mean and cruel… just like mama had said the rest of the world would be like.

"Whuh.. where are we… – where am _I_ … going to go?" Lydia blubs, in between sobs, "These are all I have … I-I won't choose..." She wipes her eyes uselessly and clambers shakily to her feet, clearly not understanding the implication that he was willing to _generously _share his lodgings with her and two of her heaped collection. Tears continue to roll down her cheeks as she backs away from him and to the table in the middle of the room.

"I died here. This is everything left of m..my life … and mama... I c-can't leave this house."

Lydia bends down, and pulls out a small, ornate box out from under it, clutching it to her chest alongside Alice. Sniffling, she looks back to him.

"Please, is there… I'll do _anything _to be able to… I can't stay in the.." She swallows, looking at him desperately. "I don't want to go back there."

* * *

That was _much _better.

No more threats or facades or _bullshit_ to feed him when she was choking on tears. It was simultaneously thrilling and uncomfortable to watch her crumpled and broken at his feet, begging and pleading for mercy. She started this fuckery, after all, trying to intimidate him and get away with it. That she was an actual ghost made the victory all the sweeter and more novel.

But. There was no honor in making little girls cry. By no means could BJ be considered a beacon of truth and righteousness, but he had lines. A code. What man didn't? Heckling little girls to tears was something he would beat the shit out of somebody _else _for, and therefore below the standard of acceptable behavior for himself.

With a heavy sigh, he crouched down to where she was near tucking herself under the table to get away from him, terrified.

"S'okay, Princess," he rumbled, not having to work that hard at forcing his face and voice gentle for her. A meaty, calloused thumb the size of her nose presumptuously caressed her cheek, rubbing icy tears over the silken flesh.

"You can stay up here with me. Told ya I ain't kickin' you out. Just yer stuff, n' it can stay in the basement where you can switch out dollies whenever ya want. Just ain't stayin' up here. Hey, I'll even move it for ya. Ya ain't gotta do nothin' but sit back n' let me do my thing. S'not so bad, see?"

She was still crying, and something in his chest was still panging uncomfortably, so he huffed again and sat down fully, teacups clinking on the table as his weight dropped.

"What's in the box, sweetness?" He was tempted to just yank it away from her, as she was so thoroughly huddled up he wasn't sure she would share, but it seemed unwise to push her. "Ya ain't gotta go nowhere. You can stay _right _here. S'not like yer gonna take up any space, short stack."

His hand never left her cheek. Ever so gently, it continued to brush tears away, often straying to pet the short, impossibly soft baby hairs near her tiny, cold little ear.

"Y'gonna lemme see what's in yer pretty lil box? I'll give it back. Promise."

* * *

"N-No, _please_...!" The moment BJ crouches down she starts to scramble backward. Her back hits the table and she squeaks, folding herself to fit underneath its tiny wooden frame, anything to get away from him and that knife she knew was hiding in his pocket, eyes screwed shut and tears spilling out faster and faster – He touches her cheek.

If it had been a regular situation – for example, if Lydia had been alive - she would have screamed. But she's dead, and he's alive, and she hasn't interacted with any other sentient being for a decade, let alone felt the live, purposeful touch of a human on her cheek, wiping away her tears… Unable to help herself, Lydia presses her cheek back into his hand, bawling like a baby now. Her throat wells painfully with the overwhelming sadness that his touch reminded her of.

Her life had been lost.

She was dead. She'd never grow old, or travel the world, or get better, or make new friends. Again, just like when she was alive… she was bound to this house.

"Y-you… you'll luh-let me … stay...?"

Her voice is pinched and wet, and she looks up at him with her slightly milky, tearful eyes. It really wasn't so bad, was it? Her dolls and clothes wouldn't be thrown away or anything… just downstairs. This guy, who'd threatened her so violently … was being nice to her? Maybe it was just self-defense before. He'd been scared of her, right? Those sweet tones, that sudden kindness in his face, the gentle touch – well, really, it was the touch. His human, living warmth was so shockingly comforting that Lydia wanted to crawl inside his arms and stay there forever. She'd never realized just how horribly cold she'd been until now.

Wiping the snot from her nose, she sniffles, and nods jarringly, still wracked with sobs. When he sits down, she flinches violently, thinking this had just been a ploy to get close enough to stab her again with that knife – but the hand on her cheek keeps her from vanishing. His words surprise her, too, and Lydia looks down into her arms to see the box, having forgotten it was there.

"Oh, um…" She starts, voice quiet and a little raspy from her tears, "This is… These are all I have of my mama, a-and me, from when… uh. A couple of photos of my daddy are in here, too."

The touch allows her to manage a watery smile, and she unfolds herself slightly in order to retrieve the box – but doesn't hand it over, instead opening it herself and gently picking up the envelope inside. She gives him a desperate, apprehensively trusting look before offering it to him with both hands, box resting on her knees.

"Here, y-you can look if you'd like. P...please be careful, though, BJ."

* * *

Imbuing as much gentility as he could into his big, clumsy hands, BJ very, very carefully accepted and unfolded the aged, delicate envelope. It wouldn't do to accidentally tear it open and tarnish the hesitant trust they were establishing.

The first photo was a family portrait featuring a man, a woman, and the dead child sans her pallor of death. The couple's state of dress denoted wealth and class, even more so when looking at the way they kept their daughter; pristine and perfect, not a frill out of place. The mother held her tight and close while the father stood aloof, looking into the camera as though he wished he could've been anywhere else.

_Prick_.

BJ immediately, inexplicably hated him.

"Yer mom's hot," he admitted crudely, either unaware or uncaring that this was lewd and rude, then moved on to the rest of the photos in the bunch. They were all taken here in this house, he recognized the wallpaper from some of the rooms in passing. In many of them, the girl was bedridden, appearing nearly as dead as she did now. The father barely made an appearance after that first portrait.

"That how you died, huh? You were sick?"

Curiosity sated, he gathered them back into a neat pile, slotted them into the loose, delicate envelope, and returned them to the girl's possession. She was much calmer now given his reassurances, and that alone made him smile. He had a little stepsister once upon a time, when he was younger and Ruth was on husband number three. Calming little girls' temper tantrums was something he found himself quite gifted at. Hopefully, Ashley was doing okay out there, wherever she was.

"They look like they loved you a lot…" This couldn't be a smart train of conversation to keep riding. She would start getting all girly and emotional again, and then he'd never get his stuff moved in… and hers _out_.

"What's yer name, Princess?" Once he had it, he wasted no time in trying it out on his tongue. "Lydia? That's a pretty name. I gotta get to work now, kitten, but here…"

He couldn't just leave her sitting in the middle of the floor like this, half shoved under the table he would be moving. Without asking or really expelling much effort at all, he took her into his arms, box and little porcelain dolly and all, and stood. Then, he settled her out of the way into the corner nearest the window, right in the lap of a giant teddy bear.

"You stay right here n' outta my way n' things'll move a lot faster. You play Pokémon?"

Of course she did. What kid didn't? Without waiting for an answer, a Gameboy was produced from his jean pocket and handed to her, a yellow cartridge stuck in the back.

"Knock yourself out, kid. Just don't save, and don't delete my game."

Satisfied that his new pet ghost was entertained and no longer a problem, for the time being anyway, BJ stood, popped his knuckles, hefted two boxes full of her belongings onto his shoulders, and began the process. Every time he came back it was to bring in more of his own things and remove more of hers, but she seemed happy enough to bury her face in his Gameboy and _click click_ away as he took over the attic.

It was dark out by the time he was done. Having ripped off his stinking, sweat-soaked shirt halfway through the process, he was a mass of sticky, sweaty male when he trudged back upstairs with the last item; his mattress. It was King-sized and lacked a frame or box spring of any kind. He was happy to let it fall loudly to the dusty floor with a thump that rattled the room. There was another heavy thump as he dropped back onto it, exhausted.

"Done," he sighed, eyes closed, arms folded behind his head, and a cigarette between his lips. "You still playin'? That thing don't need a charge yet?"

* * *

Lydia watched BJ handle her most prized possessions with a care she could see wasn't natural to him. Though still plenty tearful and apprehensive, she feels her shoulders relax a little. It wouldn't be good to keep crying her ghostly tears all evening - and then he makes that comment, and she frowns deeply, moving almost to pull the pictures from his hands, but doesn't. Instead, she closes her eyes, wipes her nose, and nods to his comment, accepting the photos and putting them away when he returns them.

The way his smile warmed her was enough to stop the tears from coming back. Mama _had _loved her - so, so much. After giving him her name and flustering over the Gameboy suddenly plopped into her lap so quickly following his unceremonious movement of her, she settles fairly easily.

What a ridiculously odd situation to find herself in... Slightly mournfully, she watches him carry her worldly possessions down to the basement.

"Um... BJ... I really like your name too," she remarks quietly after the first couple of boxes have made their way downstairs. Though Lydia had never used a Gameboy before, she figures it out fairly quickly - making sure not to save just like he'd asked. She starts a new game, though. That's how it works, right? There are multiple save files or something? She saw that in an ad for a video game once...

"Mama used to call me princess, too. She said I was like Rapunzel, stuck here because I was so sick. The attic's kind of like a castle, right?"

Absently, Lydia beings playing with her hair along with the Gameboy as she watches him begin to bring his own things upstairs. The shirt coming off makes her pallid cheeks darken somehow, extremities tingling with something she doesn't really recognize - she loses three battles in a row. When he's done, she jolts at the two thumps in succession - floating into the air and facing him, leaving the box and Alice rested carefully on the bear, Gameboy in hand. Not really sure what to do, she floats closer, offering the small device and smiling tentatively - happy from being able to play.

"Thank you, BJ..." Her voice is a small whisper, and she's staying just shy of a safe distance from him - a little close. "Mama never let me play games, ever. There wasn't that much to play when I was … a kid, though." She floats to her knees beside his mattress, ruffles settling around her.

"Don't you have a bed frame?"

* * *

_The attic's kind of like a castle, right?_

Huffing and puffing as he single-handedly pushed his heavy dresser up to the attic, this question hit his ears, and it took a great deal of concentration not to snap and say something he'd regret.

"Sure thing, baby," he rasped instead with an indiscernible bite of frustration. "Yer a princess in a tower…"

He would have to watch out for signs of spoiling. She really was a little princess and he'd be damned if he was going to play the footman to her proverbial carriage.

"Guess that makes me King."

A fangy grin was flashed her way before he kept on keeping on, pleased with himself for making that analogy. As he lay there, smoking his cigarette and basking in the post-move glow, he almost forgot she was there until she spoke up again, settling in on the dusty floor at the edge of his mattress and thanking him for use of his Gameboy.

"Huh?" He blinked, forgetting he'd even given it to her, before swiping the device back up possessively, clicking through to make sure she followed his orders. "No problem… wait a minute… hey!"

Cerulean?! He wasn't in _fucking _Cerulean City, he was in Lavender Town! With a sour face, he shut it off and turned it back on, only to growl at the name of the saved game in place of his: _Lydia_.

"You brat!" He shouted, sitting up weightily and throwing the Gameboy down onto his bed so hard it bounced off and onto the floor. "You deleted my game! I told you not to! _You—_!"

She was shrinking, big beautiful eyes welling up with tears again. _Goddamnit_. A deep breath flared his nostrils as he attempted to put a leash on his bad temper. _It's just a game. She's just a kid. It's no big deal._

"It's fine," he forced a tight smile that only lasted about two seconds before a sneer replaced it, and lit himself another cigarette. The first was flicked carelessly to places unknown, the irresponsible teenage boy not even bothering to snuff out the burning cherry first.

"Played it a hundred times. Consider it yours for now. No point in me playin' it anymore."

Besides, watching her play Pokémon would be infinitely less annoying than watching her host tea parties.

"I got loads o' games. All sorts. Mostly violent and gory. Moms can be bitches, but mine don't get to say what I can and can't play. Not that she would ever give a shit…"

_Don't you have a bed frame?_

This made him smirk around his cigarette as he continued to side-eye her skirting around his bed.

"Nope. Always break em. Usually when I've got a _girl _over…"

Fuck, how was he supposed to have chicks over with this little bit crawling all over his shit? How was he supposed to even meet chicks going to this faggoty sausage fest school? They didn't even carry a blazer that fit him. He'd had to get one custom made and was not excited to wear it for his first day at Mister Butterfield's School For Boys. Could they have come up with a more homoerotic name than that?

Oh great. Being a teenager sucked. The mere thought of his past sexual encounters had inspired an erection in him, the material at the crotch of his jeans growing tight against his will. He groaned, rolling over onto his belly to hide it before the annoyance could notice. But _maybe…_

Maybe this setup could be turned in his favor.

"How old're you, kid?"

* * *

BJ's 'Guess that makes me king' echoes in Lydia's mind loudly when he starts to yell at her. She wilts like a flower set aflame, looking up at him and soaking in every word with big, wide eyes, glossy with tears.

"I'm sorry, I'm _really _sorry, I won't touch it again!" Comes tumbling out of her mouth when he sits up so abruptly and throws the Gameboy so violently, little arms thrown up and eyes screwed shut in anticipation for the crescendo. It doesn't come.

Lydia doesn't open her eyes or let her hands down until she hears the lighter click, eyes blinking open to the discovery that her lower lids were wet again. The careless flick of his previous cigarette butt irks her immensely, but she had no intention to aggravate him further, keeping her mouth shut and muscles tense.

Despite her anger at his disregard for their now shared living space, she can't help but bounce a little in excitement at the prospect of owning the game – even temporarily.

"Really?" She chirps, fervently listening to him talk about the other games he had, mood dampening when he mentions his mother. Not really meaning to, she speaks, tracing her cold fingers cautiously on his forearm. If her allowing and actively encouraging his smoking was any form of evidence, it might've been true, but Lydia says it anyway.

"She's still here, though." Lydia wasn't stupid. She knew why her dad wasn't ever home. Though she realizes the moment she just had and pulls her hand away, cocking her head to the side at his comments.

"Like on sleepovers?" Of course – BJ was, not to be rude, a large guy (the largest she'd ever seen), so it'd make sense that the extra weight could break the bed. Why just girls, though?

She can't help but smile at his sudden trivial question, wondering if he was wanting to get to know her now.

"I'm fourte…" Her eyes go hard when she speaks, voice trailing off. Correction – she died when she was fourteen. Was there… that big of a difference? "I guess I was fourteen, but, well… Time is… odd, after. I think it's been maybe ten years since my last birthday." She laughs with little humor and smiles sheepishly. "Um, what about you, BJ?"

* * *

"Uhhh…" He stared at her dumbly for a long moment, jaw slack and cigarette in danger of falling to burn yet another hole in his raggedy mattress. "Yeah. Sure. _Sleepovers_."

Was she really that… naïve? Obviously, she was incredibly sheltered judging by those photos and her mannerisms alone, but by the time he was fourteen, he was getting head from high school girls and shoplifting condoms.

Fourteen wasn't so bad. She wasn't his usual type. He generally preferred a bitch with a nice big set of tits to fill his meaty palms, and an ass to match. But… Lydia was _awfully _cute. In a different sort of way than he was used to. Her hair was soft, and long, and felt good between his fingers. Her face was pretty, that smooth, pale skin pure and unblemished as though it had never seen a single burn.

"M' seventeen," he grunted, still scrutinizing her head to toe, weighing the pros and cons of the deplorable ideas running through his rat-like mind. "Gonna be eighteen in a couple months. Say… Lyds…"

He pulled himself up some until he was resting on his elbows, then army crawled closer to her. Very close. Enough for her to be offended by the acrid scent of burning tobacco wafting from his smoke.

"I been thinkin'. Where're _you _gonna sleep? My bed's big enough, I s'pose…" His tone was all sorts of casual and innocent, none of the foul intentions lurking in the back of his mind present on his carefully schooled countenance. "But I get it if ya don't wanna snuggle up with me. I prolly got cooties. You even need sleep? Bein' dead n' all..."

She seemed confused. Rightly so. BJ didn't blame her. With an amused chuckle, he pushed himself up, peeling his sweaty torso off the groaning, beaten up mattress.

"Imma go take a shower. I stink. You just think about it, sweetheart. No answer is wrong."


	3. Chapter 3

"Mhm?" Lydia responds, tilting her head slightly when he addresses her. She then scoots back abruptly at his closeness, eyes wide and cheeks darkening in their ashy pallor. She watched him crawl over, sure, but she'd convinced herself that he was going to stop sooner. He didn't. Obviously.

And then BJ's hot breath is on her face – followed by that horrid stink of tobacco and sweat – it takes everything in her not to cover her nose, the immaculate skin around her eyes creasing as her face scrunches up involuntarily into a grimace. Even she knows that that would be insanely rude, and it's not like her dead, ghosty hand would offer much of a physical barrier between her and that flavourful stench, but it's invoking her fight or flight response.

"That can't be good for you," is a tiny, squeaky little husk of a sentence that escapes her mouth before he talks. When he speaks, she soaks it in – and just blanks at his words, head tilting all the way to the other side in unhidden confusion.

"You'll let me...?" Lydia peeps, stunned at his offer. He's gone before he can hear it, and she's glad because one, thank God he's going to shower, and two, she's freaking out.

Immediately her heart screams 'yes!', and her brain, in the interest of her self-preservation, whines 'no.'. The ghost stands, clutching her cheeks, hovering and stomping her feet into the air. She'd never had a sleepover with anyone besides mama before, and that was just sleeping with her in her bed, cooing into her hair – not to mention the fact that that was literally a decade ago. If she did, she'd feel that warmth again… Her dead heart leaps in her chest. But she was freezing cold, right? Wouldn't that be awful for him? And what if it was all a ploy to hurt her again… But he'd been so kind earlier. Not even making her move her boxes herself, and offering her his game, not hurting her then when she did something wrong… And even if it was some ploy, she could just run away. Hide from him forever and steal his Gameboy all for herself. She had to take this chance. He could be the last human to ever offer her his touch willingly in a very long time. It had been so lonely, like a sad little princess locked away at the top of her tower. Now she had a king. (She'd rather a knight, but BJ really wasn't much of one of those.)

By the time he comes back, Lydia's got her hair neatly tied into two low plaits, and she even braved the basement for her pajamas – a black cotton baby doll set and a pair of knee-length socks. Alice is held tightly in her arms, and she squirms nervously from foot to foot.

"Um, I'd – I would… It'd be really nice if we could share, BJ," she ducks her head, focusing on her feet, "I like to sleep, but I don't need to… I do it a lot to pass the time. I did it a lot when I was sick, too… But I'm really cold, so I understand if you don't want to or anything. If it was a joke, I guess I fell for it, ha…"

Lydia fiddles with the hem of her shirt, feeling suddenly incredibly silly. "And I don't believe in cooties anymore..."

* * *

With his teeth brushed, sweat, dirt, and grime washed down the drain— as well as a heavy load of cum in case he struck out with the little princess— BJ was feeling infinitely less gross and more likely to get his way. He dressed for bed in the bathroom, not wishing to push her too far, but she was going to have to get used to the sight of his nude body eventually. He wasn't about to leave the room to change clothes every time he needed to dress.

His pajamas consisted of a soft pair of green plaid pants that hung low on his hips and nothing else. No shirt, no boxers, no nothing. Really, this was him being generous. Most nights he slept au naturale.

When the sight of his little pet in that sinfully short baby doll nightdress assaulted his gaze, his cock once more stood rigidly at attention, as if he hadn't been furiously beating off in the shower for the last half hour. Fuck. It was a good thing she was down to share, or he didn't know _what _he would've done watching her float around like that.

"Y'should." He licked his lips, barely concealing his interest while digging a sheet out of a box. "Cooties're real. Ask my ma, she's gotta go see a doctor about the clap every other month. You prolly ain't gotta worry about that shit though."

Could dead chicks get STD's? Probably not. Good thing he was clean.

"Help me dress the bed, cupcake, and then we can get nice n' snug. I dunno about you, but I'm _beat_."

It wasn't a lie. He was tired. He just wasn't _that _tired.

"That's a cute lil outfit," he buttered her up further as she took the opposite edge of the sheet and tucked it under on her side. "All your clothes like that? Bows n' laces n' frills n' shit? Yer parents never gotcha a pair o' jeans or nothin'? I mean, don't get me wrong, the look suits ya. Just curious."

These dumb as shit parents had done her a disservice. By keeping her hidden and ignorant of the evils of the world the way they had, how would she ever be able to spot the danger he presented? It was only a bonus that everything she wore provided easy access. She bent to tuck the sheet in at another corner, the hem of her dress rode up, and BJ was for a moment privy to a flash of pure white panties covering a lush little bottom. He groaned, drank in the sight for as long as it was allowed, and subtly adjusted his loose pants.

This was going to be _fun_.

* * *

Setting Alice down in the lap of her bear, Lydia all but skips over to him to help, excited that he really meant it.

He's wearing a lot less than she thought he would be for pajamas – but then again, she'd never seen a guy wear pajamas before, besides her daddy in a bathrobe for his morning coffee. Maybe they all only wore bottoms? Either way, she's quite worried that he'll get cold, especially sharing with her. The 'cupcake' makes her chest fuzzy, just like all of his other pet names. It was like he had an endless supply… and she was just devoid of imagination.

"It's … I never have any energy. I'm tired a lot," Lydia replies, cheeks staining the shade of a wilted red rose at his comment on her dress. She nods meekly, tugging at one of the bows and finding covers for his pillows.

"Uh-huh, all of them, even when I was a baby. Mama used to say, 'A man's home is his castle, and you're my little princess'. Like Rapunzel, as I said before - she wanted to dress me up like my dolls so we'd match, and I guess sometimes it was like I was her dolly, too. Daddy didn't really mind… though I think sometimes he'd argue with her about it, but," she twirls in her dress innocently, oblivious as the whole skirt lifts to reveal her body from the ribs down, pristine panties on display, tiny white bow detail and all. "I like it."

The dress settles, and she sits on the bed with a soft plop, giggling a little.

"Now, at least… I remember wanting to be like the girls on TV, but I guess it doesn't matter anymore, huh?" Lydia offers him a small smile.

* * *

Did she still have blood in there? She didn't leak any when he cut her earlier, asserting dominance in the wake of her half-hearted threats, but the pearlescent apples of her cheeks were pooling red now as he commented on her outfit.

Where _else _might she bleed? What memory of biological function remained in that tight, soft little body? No doubt she died a virgin with the innocent, fearless way she conceded to sharing _his _bed, flattered even that he would so kindly offer. Poor doll.

Fascinated and riled, he watched, salivating as the otherworldly sprite moved seamlessly into a graceful twirl that revealed far, far too much of that perfect, icy flesh, only to crumple weak and boneless right in the center of his mattress. She didn't have to be there. There was enough room to scoot to the other side, each of them sleep in their own space without touching or bothering the other.

No, she wanted to _cuddle_.

"You like being owned?"

BJ couldn't relate. He lurked near the light switch under a shadow while she finished up making his bed, fluffing his pillows, little panty-covered ass and milky thighs on full display. The way she preened so proudly at being her mother's little porcelain doll gave him a sick feeling, but again, he was all too happy to take advantage.

"Mama ain't here no more, Lyds."

Darkness swallowed the room, all except for a spotlight of moonbeam coming in from a high, circular window. It illuminated her brilliantly, making her appear more ghostly than ever. Tension coiled at the base of his spine; a predator ready to strike.

"… but you can be _my _doll."

* * *

A cold shiver shoots down Lydia's spine when he speaks, skin bursting into gooseflesh. She frowns at his words, about to say something when the light turns off. Squeaking in surprise, she pulls a pillow to her chest, pouting and trying to shake off the feeling that something bad was going to happen.

"Warn me next time, BJ..." Her tone is more than a little timid, and she looks around for him - being dead, her eyes don't adjust at all, but she could see better in the dark than bright daylight. Though, honestly, not much better.

"A-and I don't know what you mean, being owned... Mama just liked to dress me ..." Lydia gets gradually more frantic, tugging again at the ruffles on her dress, trying to understand what he meant. "I don't want to be your doll, BJ‒ You're scaring me!"

His mention of mama makes the hair on the back of her neck prickle up. Not like she needed any reminder that she was alone and mama was gone. It really wasn't any of his business.

* * *

What a delicious change. How _easy _it was to scare her. It gave him a power rush like no other to watch her shiver and dissent in his bed in his room, stolen from her. He could scare _ghosts_.

"You don't wanna be my dolly, Princess?"

He lurked beyond her sight still. Trying his best to keep his steps light, he savored the way she fidgeted, saw the thought in her head as it occurred that _maybe this wasn't such a good idea._

"That hurts my feelin's. You think I don't take care o' my stuff?"

Hopefully, his Gameboy was still working after that nasty hit it took to the floorboards. Buying another one would be annoying. The moment came where he would have to either strike or watch her cry out and sob again, her fragile emotions building higher and higher for reasons beyond her comprehension.

The floorboards creaked, her wide, teary gaze darted toward his place in the shadows, and he tackled. Careful not to hurt her, he slammed a hand over her mouth to stifle her surprised scream and tickled her "accidentally" uncovered ribs with the other.

"Got you!" He cackled as if it was all a great joke, only releasing her mouth when he was sure she would laugh rather than shriek. "I _scared _you! Lydia's a scaredy-cat, na na na na na na!"

* * *

"W-Well you – you…!" Involuntary tears well in her eyes and Lydia draws her arms around herself, feeling herself start to shake. She wasn't afraid of the dark, she was afraid of… what could be in it.

…

And that happened to be BJ, who had already shown how scary he could be. Memories of his threat to her, as well as his total disregard of her beautiful porcelain dolls, are still fresh in her mind. Really, from what she'd seen, he wasn't very good at taking care of his stuff either, despite how he'd asked the question. Therefore, it's not like Lydia wanted to belong to him or felt like she belonged to him in the slightest.

Now that's she's thinking about it again, Lydia starts to really panic, fists balled up in the frills of her dress and eyes flitting toward the source of any little noise the attic makes – which is every noise imaginable on this particular night, it seems. When a loud, weighty creak sounds from somewhere in the attic and makes her physically jump, Lydia's head whips toward it– and then her body is enveloped in warmth so shockingly fast she lets out a scream that's muffled entirely by a large (though clean, at least) hand covering her mouth.

He's tickling her. Lydia's guard is so far down on this front that it might not have ever been considered – she squirms and kicks and screams with laughter, even as his hand rides far too high up her nightdress. Relief floods her system, followed by aching sides, (already – Lydia hadn't laughed or been tickled for a very, very long time) and pleas of mercy tumble out of her mouth once he lets it go, in between uncontrollable giggles and deep gulps of air.

After long enough for her cheeks to be wet from tears tickled out of her tear ducts, BJ lets her go – and she flops back to the bed on her back, still shaking with silent laughter and warmth. Her socks have fallen down to her ankles and her loose dress is half off of one shoulder, ridden up high enough for a glimpse at her chest through the sheer ruffles at the bottom. Lydia doesn't notice this, laying there and recovering for a minute before sitting up at facing him, shaking her head, long hair swaying and a little frizzy. She pushes at his chest, weak little arms still feeling like jelly.

"I'm not a scaredy-cat! That wasn't funny, BJ!" The smile on her face says otherwise.

* * *

"You sure?"

He pinched her side gently, threatening more tickles at any point, just to keep her on her toes.

"You were laughin' a lot. I thought it was pretty fuckin' funny."

For now, he hovered over her on one elbow, eating up the flash of pale pink nipples teased beneath her nightgown's ruffles. His hand never left her. After tickling her into a breathless state of submission, it lay flat and heavy over her ribs, holding her in place without any real effort. It wasn't like she was trying to squirm away or anything.

"Gosh… yer _so _pretty, Lydia…"

Unable to help himself, he stooped down to press a brief, soft kiss to her cheek.

"Sorry I scared ya. I's just trynna make ya loosen up a lil. Yer so _jumpy_. I ain't gonna bite."

Not unless the going got _real _good. That baby-soft flesh was freezing cold under his palm, the large limb moving in slow easy circles in a fruitless attempt to imbue some heat into her. His cock had yet to flag from all the tantalizing glimpses and touches of untainted flesh, in danger of poking out of the opening in his fleece pants. With a grunt, he curled tighter around her, cuddling the way she wanted.

"You _are _cold… that's okay. I'm warm enough for the both of us."

With a tug, his heavy comforter was pulled up over the both of them, conveniently hiding his raging erection as he pulled her bare chest in against his furry one.

"Come snuggle up, baby…"

* * *

If the threat of tickles wasn't enough to keep Lydia on her guard, she didn't know anything that would be.

"I was laughing because you were assaulting me with tickles, BJ!" She scoffs gently, wrinkling her nose up at him - and then it's as if her senses come back in a rush as she catches her breath. The warmth of his huge hand against such an expanse of her bare skin is suddenly so apparent that she gasps, and then she gasps again, louder when he compliments her - suddenly aware of her state of dress.

Though now focused on the fact that her panties were fully on display, Lydia doesn't get the chance to fix it before her brain melts at the feeling of his lips on her cheek. The thought goes out of the window at the sensation of his warmth spreading over her face, and - though still - her heart feels as though it's going to explode, hands shaking and legs quivering.

"I've never been kissed before," Slips wistfully and absently between her lips in a gentle whisper - she smacks a hand over her mouth quickly, looking away in pure embarrassment, "S-Sorry - and, um, it's fine! I just. I'm not used to... touching."

Despite this, Lydia complies without any struggle - just a slight bit of hesitation at the mention of her temperature.

"Sorry," She murmurs again, eyes looking anywhere but BJ's face, the nickname 'baby' slipping down her spine in an oddly hot shiver. Her pause is quickly overrun by his invitation, allowing herself to press up against him comfortably, head resting against his fuzzy chest. The way his warmth surrounds her freezing body and sinks beneath the surface makes her moan - one tiny little sound that she presses into his skin.

"Thank you, BJ."

* * *

_I've never been kissed before._

He knew already. Of course he knew. How could he not? _But why did she say it?_ The longer BJ held her tiny, frozen frame to his chest, the easier it was to convince himself that this was an invitation of sorts. She wanted to sleep in his bed, didn't she? She was the one giving him that peep show earlier. She didn't say anything, not one word when he kept touching her after that playful bout of tickling.

She was silent now, too; laying on top of him like he was a mattress all on his own, not a syllable of complaint to be found as he rubbed his hand up and down her tiny back under her nightgown. Slowly, he caressed from shoulder to thigh, dragging his heavy, warm palm over her silken flesh and panties, feeling her up indulgently under the guise of providing "warmth."

She was so small. Too small. It was tragic, made his heart ache for her. Sickness must have kept her from getting the nutrition she needed to grow properly. Despite how underfed and developed she was, she was still so _soft_, a thin, cushy layer of fat padding her tiny form all over, bouncing back easily as he pressed down. Eventually, his petting came to a pause over her ass, the pads of his fingertips flirting dangerously with the lacy hem of her panties over those squeezable cheeks.

Currently, her soft, skinny thigh was pressed up lax and shameless to his covered cock. She couldn't possibly know. If she was aware anything was amiss, she didn't say so.

"Lyds…?"

He hushed very quietly minutes into their cuddling, unaware if she was even still awake. Against his will, his hips shifted up, pushing his groin into her thigh delightfully. If she was asleep, maybe he could get away with rubbing up against her _just right_. If she was awake, well…

"Can I kiss you?"


	4. Chapter 4

Ok, so maybe BJ's touches had started feeling the tiniest bit uncomfortable when his hand had begun to move lower and lower even more so, but the warmth his touch is providing her is perfect enough to completely overlook it – she snuggles herself further into his chest. Even though she typically had some trouble getting to sleep, that was when she was in her old stone-cold bed, and not snuggled up on top of what felt like the warmest human alive. She nestles her cheek against the fuzz on his chest, faltering only a little when he fiddles with the edge of her panties, and then dismissing it.

Besides, what was he going to do? Lydia disregards any apprehensions as his calloused hands move perfectly along her little body.

Her eyes slip shut easily, comforted in the attic's ringing silence by the gentle sound of his painfully alive heartbeat. BJ was huge compared to her – easily the size of her old little kid's bed, maybe even bigger. Despite the tickle attack earlier, she begins drifting peacefully into a gentle, shallow sleep when she hears him say her name, shifting slightly.

"Mmh...?" Comes Lydia's sleepy reply – she doesn't lift her head, just turns it slightly, long locks of silky hair slipping off his chest. Maybe he's uncomfortable? She moves upwards, drawing her knees further up his body, hoping that that's the extent of what he wants from her so she can go to sleep.

The question he poses her sounds like it's out of a dream. In between unconsciousness and feeling awfully cozy, she giggles sleepily and nods.

"I wiish…"

* * *

The way she curled up higher, dragging her creamy thigh torturously over, and then away from his cock, soft baby hair sliding like water over his bare chest drove him mad. His heavy mitt was already digging into her backside, just what he knew he could get away with, before she ever granted her dreamy, half-awake permission.

Emboldened, hanging on to too thin of a thread to think much further past that she said yes, he moved. Without much thought or effort at all, he pulled her up gently by his grip on her hindquarters until that pink little mouth was scant centimeters away from his. He could smell her; baby powder and clean laundry and dried, sweet herbs and flowers.

His breath was quickening, heartbeat pounding harder and harder beneath her fragile, ethereal form. Why was he so excited? It was just a kiss. After taking in several deep, savoring breaths of her, his lips fell— softer than he knew he was capable.

He didn't have to be.

He could bite, and stuff his tongue past her lax, pliable lips, rip those little panties out of the way, and make her pay a toll for the privilege of staying here. It's not like she could run and hide anywhere. But... that seemed wrong. Not when he could get what he wanted from her the sweet way, and oh was she sweet. Instead of plundering her depths for all he could take, he simply moved his lips over hers with great gentility and patience, enjoying the way they molded perfectly beneath his.

Two thick digits slid between her thighs and over her covered mound— lightly, unthreateningly, just exploring— and he was tortured further to find the barest hint of moisture there, hidden just behind those tiny, pretty panties. He groaned, holding her tighter to him— maybe too tight— and couldn't help but suckle at her delicious, velvet lips, tongue occasionally lashing out to demand entrance.

She tasted so _good…_

* * *

Lydia doesn't think too much of it when he pulls her upwards, just assuming he's maneuvering her to his comfort so that he can get to sleep. When she feels his breath quicken on her cheek, and his heartbeat thud harder against her own chest through the thin layer of fabric between them, however, Lydia drowsily opens an eye, and is surprised at how close his face is.

"..Bj..? Is ever-" And then his lips were on hers. Warm, slightly chapped, toothpaste-flavored and oh so carefully gentle, Lydia's eyes widen in shock, every muscle in her body tensing – and then they slide back closed, fingers curling at their place on his chest. He was kissing her. Shock and an overwhelming array of emotions and feelings course through her. For once, her tummy actually feels warm for what seems to be another reason besides BJ's touch. Although it did seem to be directly caused by BJ's touch. Lydia decides that this is, in fact, a dream, and relaxes into him, feeling herself tremble gently against his sturdy form.

Even when alive, she'd never felt anything like this. He smelt like soap, and tobacco, and something earthy that she couldn't quite place, like freshly mowed grass that had been set on fire. That was why she had to tell herself it was a dream – even if the last time she'd dreamt anything was over ten years ago – because this happening was impossible. She was a ghost, and he was so undeniably alive – and he looked like one of those guys on TV that's always beating up nerds and breaking hearts. The feelings bubbling up in her throat make her choke up a little, and then she does, gasping against his mouth sharply when his fingers slide against her center. Lydia wriggles against him, whining in her throat, and buries her face into his shoulder.

"B-BJ, you… you can't t-touch there..." Comes her meek voice as she shivers, trying to draw her hips upwards and away from his fingers, accidentally rubbing herself against him instead – scared more of how it makes her feel than the touch itself. "That's – no one's allowed, o-okay?"

* * *

Oh fuck, she was so good. She had to be into it; the way she tensed, then relaxed so deliciously on top of him, getting used to it. Her very first kiss and it was all his. What a power rush. He never wanted it to end, and so nipped her little breakable neck lightly in reprimand when she gasped and pulled away from him, jutting her quickly dampening panties harder into his hand.

Can't touch there? _No one's allowed?_ Why not?!

He almost pouted, ignoring her silly request and leaving his fingers right where they were. Frowning severely, he flipped in an abrupt motion, placing her firmly on the pillows beneath him while he hovered overhead, heavy and panting. Now, he could see her and touch her, drink in all that opaline flesh steeped in moonlight.

"You don't like it?"

He pressed harder, undulating his thick index finger over her covered slit and clit, biting his lip in frustration at the feel of how easily her slick labia moved aside to make room for him beneath the meager protection her underwear provided.

"Does it hurt?" Once he had confirmation of what he already knew, he continued. "I like you, kitten… don't make me stop. Please. Don't you feel good?"

Unable to help himself with so much of her bared, her dress ridden up with all their moving around, he dropped to pepper lingering kisses over her smooth chest, one directly on each nipple, a warm tongue briefly dipping into her belly-button.

"Just… let me… shhh…"

His finger breached the hem of her panties without any permission whatsoever, dragging slowly along her nearly hairless, virgin cunt.

"You're so wet, baby…"

* * *

All the questions he's asking, all the jitters of near unbearable pleasure skittering down her legs and up her spine…

She feels breathless after he flips her over, and she never catches it back – head clouded with conflicting feelings that well up heavily and weigh down on her tiny chest.

_You don't like it? Does it hurt?_

Squirming and trembling, tears gathering yet again in her lashes from overwhelm, Lydia shakes her head from side to side to side, and then up and down and up and down, whimpering and clutching helplessly at his chest.

"H-hurts," She squeaks out, choked and strained, fingers twitching on his skin as he plays with her like a cat toying with a mouse it's about to completely devour. Her tummy isn't warm anymore, it's burning hot and it hurts, just like she's telling him. When he kisses over her chest, her back arches straight into his touch. "Nuh-uh… pluh.. please, please… BJ…"

Then he really touches her. Those tears piling on her lashes spill over her cheeks and fall onto his pillow behind her head, and the heat becomes absolutely overpowering. Lydia arches right up into his touch, her tremours becoming shakes, eyes squeezing shut in pain and awful, rippling pleasure spreading all the way to her toes and fingertips. She falls apart in his hands, her first kiss and now, first orgasm belonging only to him.

* * *

It was done and over before he could even grasp what had happened, her little body shaking and crying out beneath him in rapture from just that single swipe of his finger. Sweet little tears kissed her blushing cheeks on their way to dampen his pillows, the girl so clearly overwhelmed from her first taste of bliss.

BJ looked down at her reverently, in awe of her very existence as she slowly descended from her peak, his finger still happily snug between her puffy little netherlips, tucked under her panties.

"You're beautiful…"

That was a pussy thing to say. He didn't even care. She deserved to know. He'd barely touched her at all and she exploded for him, driven to tears by the sheer intensity of it. All these years up here all alone, no one to kiss or hold her, none of the knowledge necessary to touch herself and give her body what it didn't know it wanted.

"Poor baby," he coddled as she trembled and cried, lost in his thoughts. "That's so good. You're doin' so good. It's okay…"

The decision was already made before either of them could talk or think about it, hungry hands moving on their own to pull her panties down until they were hooked around her knees. If he could do that to her without even trying, what would happen if he put some real effort in? He had to know. She made him _ravenous_.

"It's okay…" he repeated over and over again, hot breath rushing over her sweet little pussy. Evidence of her release glistened over hairless pale lips, only a fine dusting of raven fur just beginning to appear on her pubis. Just then, a tiny, cold hand found its way into his hair, and the weak thread holding him back snapped.

He devoured her mercilessly, opening his big mouth wide to encompass the entirety of the sensitive area; suckling and licking and lathing up everything she had to take, unwilling to let a single drop go to waste. Nothing would be able to stop him from enjoying his meal.

* * *

The pause isn't long enough at all for Lydia to even begin to catch her breath – let alone stop crying. As he stares at her in wonder Lydia covers her face, wiping her cheeks harshly with the backs of her hands while she tries to calm down, chin wobbling and lips quivering at both her painful, searing embarrassment and the leftover stings of pleasure.

His words just make her choke on the sobs rising in her throat – a tearful, almost unrecognizable "thank you" blubbered out, and only because she's always been taught it's the right thing to say in the wake of compliments. And then he starts to touch her again. When her underwear is bunched up around her ankles, she starts shaking her head, fingers and toes still twitching and tummy still full of hot coals.

"N-no, no nonono – BJ, I cuh- I can't...!" Lydia shivers at the feeling of his hot breath on her center, trying to draw her legs up to her chest, scramble away, tug his hair, anything, anything at all to make it stop so that she could catch herself up, process what was going on, figure out what just happened… But he shows her no such mercy.

Lydia all but screams when he begins. Every single muscle in her body tenses, fingers tugging harshly at his hair and digging into the freezing skin around her mouth in an attempt at keeping herself quiet, and the floodgates open. Each bittersweet, harsh, raw and searing crash of pleasure wanes her grip on reality until she can feel herself flickering in and out of existence, sobbing hard, quivering and sitting up to curl into him, unable to control the way her hips buck harshly up towards his mouth. Before she realizes her limbs are translucent and realizes one of her tears has splat against her forehead, he nibbles just a shy too harshly in just the agonizingly right place and again she climaxes, unable to let out more than a squeak of "BJ" before she flops backward – and everything else does, too.

Alice's hands, his Gameboy, a few locks of her hair, some loose-leaf paper and a handful of her tears fall back down from where they'd been hovering weakly in the air, and she would've jumped if she wasn't so tired her fingers were see-through.

* * *

His hips rocked heavily into the mattress as he feasted on her, thrusting against the scratchy sheets, pantomiming what he would like to be doing to his little bedmate. It was too good. He wanted her bad, hunger building the longer he carried on with her like this.

What had started as a passing curiosity had turned into an obsession. She wasn't just his ghost because she haunted his house. She was his ghost because she shared his bed, her first kiss was his, her first orgasm was his, and everything else she had to give— or take— was either already his, or it was going to be.

He'd lost track of how many times she'd cum on his tongue, each of her subsequent orgasms after the first blending together in his lustful haze. A particularly harsh buck into his mouth— he wasn't even bothering to hold her down, the weight of his head alone keeping her in place— paired with a lovely little shriek took him by surprise, knocking him out of it.

He pulled away, blinking rapidly as common sense returned, only to gape in wonder at the sight, or lack thereof, she presented. She was translucent. He could see right through her, could view where his hands were still beneath her, holding on tight with foolish confidence that she wouldn't disappear. Aside from that amazing sight, everything around them in the room was floating, just an inch or so from the ground; the bed, his boxes, the two dolls he allowed her, everything. And then…

_CRASH!_

He came back to Earth at the same time his stuff did. She was solid again beneath him, crying and red-faced, clothing in disarray. Fuck. Sudden and immediate guilt stabbed him through the gut like a jagged, rusty knife, harsh and sickening. What had he done?

"Benny?" A weak feminine voice carried up the stairs, slurring slightly. It was about that time of night. "You okay up there?"

"EVERYTHIN'S FINE, RUTH!"

In reality, he was on the verge of panic. Shit, she didn't like that, did she? Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck… Blustering and clumsy, chewing on curses under his breath, he carefully pulled her cute little panties back into place, then her precious little socks, and finally her flimsy nightgown, piece by piece putting her back together with just as much care as he had taken her apart.

"Shit… fuck, Lyds… don't cry, baby…"

What kind of monster was he? Desperate to stem the constant flow of tears leaking from her too big, too beautiful eyes, he tucked her on top of his best, softest pillow, pulling the blanket over her delicate form until she was secured up to the chin. Lastly, he placed her discarded doll right next to her, going the extra mile to straighten her tiny dress and messy curls as well with a trembling hand.

"I didn't mean ta— yer just so— so pretty… and I like you so much… fuck, I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Lyds. Please don't hate me…"

* * *

She barely even flinches when BJ yells down to his mother – hands finally solid enough to wipe again at her eyes, jaw aching from her thick sobs. In fact, everything was aching: her legs, as BJ pulls her socks up, her hips, as her underwear is put back in place, her arms, while he fixes her nightdress properly onto her shoulders.

Lydia's sniffles are weak and pitiful. Though they grow quieter as he speaks and fusses over her, she doesn't flinch away from his touch only because she's so exhausted. There are still tremors throughout her body – she shivers actively, even after Alice is placed neatly beside her and she's thoroughly tucked into her blanket.

"I-I.." She croaks. Her eyes slide sadly open to look at him, and she's struggling to hold the tears back again, feeling them swell painfully in her throat, "I to… I told you no… But you still did, BJ…"

Chewing on her lip, Lydia sits up slowly, and then pushes her face into his chest, crying again. She didn't want to touch him, but the way he fussed, and trembled, and cared about her made her heart ache awfully… She just needed comfort. He was the only person who'd ever be able to give it to her. There was no one else.

"I don't hate you," Comes as a hoarse, rasped whisper, her ice-cold cheek squished against his chest, freezing tears sliding onto his hot skin. "I just don't understand… I said stop, BJ.."

* * *

Guilt turned into despair as she crumpled in his arms, whimpering out things that twisted the knife in his gut deeper. Despair turned into frustration as he mentally sorted through all of his different options and realized that nothing was good enough to fix this, short of turning back time and stopping himself from… from…

He didn't have the courage to apply a label to his actions. Not the proper label anyway. Not the one he deserved.

"I thought you wanted it," he reasoned, lying to either himself or her, it wasn't clear. "You kissed me and— n' your clothes and… the fuck was I supposed to think?"

There was a bite of defensiveness harshening his tone, even as he held her poor sniffling form close and gentle.

"Just— just— fuck, I _said _I was sorry! You're fine! _Stop crying!"_

He needed to calm down. It made him angry that she was upset. That he couldn't do anything about it. That it was his fault. Everything about the entire situation just pissed him off more and more; thinking about it, looking at her and remembering the way he selfishly brushed off her begging him to _please stop—_

It was too much. Almost violently, he released her to drown her tears into his pillow instead, lurking across the room to a specific box. After a moment, he retrieved a cigar box. Goods procured, he sat heavily Indian style at the corner of the mattress like a chastised dog, fiddling around until he had a glass pipe packed full of a dank-smelling green herb.

Some weed could fix this. Weed fixed everything.

"Wanna get high?" He grunted after taking a deep hit and holding in the smoke for a long while, too experienced of a smoker to choke on the exhale. "I assume this is one o' those things mama never let ya do."

* * *

That concern and care seem to disintegrate into horrifying, awful anger still while Lydia weeps into him. When he speaks – tone completely shifted, harsh and tearing into her – she looks up at him with her big, cloudy eyes full of fear and more, endless sparkling tears.

He was right, though, wasn't he?

Lydia's fingers grip onto the hem of her dress under the covers again, and she worries her bottom lip between her teeth, trying her absolute hardest to stop crying so he wouldn't be mad at her anymore. Whenever mama had spoken like this, it was always Lydia's fault, no matter what. Even if she didn't understand – which she didn't a lot – it was always on her, and Lydia was certain it was in this case, too. Often it'd come down to her sickness and fragility, which Lydia always felt responsible for – like when daddy stopped coming home as often, or the neighbors hadn't come to check in that week, but, of course, this time it was because she was an awful, dirty, dead little girl.

When he all but throws her down, her heart feels like it's shattered into a million pieces. Lydia does continue to sob and hiccup into his pillow, wrapping herself around it and trying to feel safe while he roots around in his boxes in his room where he was letting her stay. She didn't even belong here anymore. She was being ungrateful, crying to him for what he'd done when truly it wasn't his fault.

The bed's movement makes her look up, fearfully, and she's about to apologize when she sees what he's doing and has no idea what's going on, yet again. It smells bad, and whatever he's blowing into looks scary – and then he exhales it in her direction and she coughs wetly, waving her hand in front of her face. At his offer, she shakes her head, wiping the tracks from her cheeks and sitting up to face him, pillow still clutched between her arms.

"I'm sorry, B-BJ… I don't … know what that is."

* * *

That did the trick. The potent effects of the THC took hold in seconds, unwinding tension from his neck, back, and shoulders, clouding his mind to the point that anger seemed exhausting and useless. Only sadness and guilt were left behind, unaided by the way she sniffled and admitted to not even knowing what the fuck weed was.

She was a baby. He was a monster.

Very slow and cautious, not wanting to spook her or cause her any more undue stress, he inched closer until she could see the pipe and its contents more clearly. Then, he very patiently and calmly gave her a crash course in smoking.

"This is called 'marijuana'. It's a plant. Think it's a flower technically, but I dunno, might be an herb… Some people call it 'pot' or 'weed.' It's like tobacco, but s'not bad for ya. Ain't gonna give ya cancer. Also, it tastes better." It seemed unwise to remind her that she wasn't in any danger of contracting terminal illnesses.

"There's two different kinds o' weed; sativa n' indica. Sativa makes ya feel more creative, makes ya wanna do stuff n' have fun. Indica relaxes you n makes ya sleepy. This is indica. Strain's called 'Northern Lights.' Grew it m'self, s'good shit."

He could scarcely look at her all through the lesson plan, instead keeping a sad puppy dog gaze stubbornly locked on the black and white striped glass piece in his hand.

"I dunno if it'd even do anythin' to ya, you bein'… you know… But… I got it. N' you can smoke some if ya want… feel better… I dunno…"

* * *

BJ's tone had shifted again. Cautious and kind, as opposed to that awful and harsh reprimand from earlier… Lydia watches him approach her like a wounded mouse, eyes more on his face than the pipe – but peers into it when he shows her. It smells … awful. She wrinkles her nose, though listens to him patiently explain it to her, trying her best to understand.

She'd read books on the studies of wildflowers before, and even gardening books, but had never come across anything like this.

"You're a … gardener?" Lydia asks, in response to his statement about growing the herb himself. He didn't seem to be the type – it was such a surprising thing to learn about BJ that Lydia feels her cheeks warm. Her fingernails clink faintly against the glass of the pipe when she touches it. She doesn't take it out of his hands, though, just examining with piqued curiosity that stifled her prevalent sadness. He was offering her something like this… and yet she hesitated because smoking anything was bad, right?

"Is it like medicine? I've never seen anything like this before, just pills and liquids…" She really didn't know much about medicine despite how much she took when she was alive. Was it like those drugs mama had told her to never touch? BJ was right in that it didn't really matter anymore since she was… dead. And it wouldn't hurt to try… Nervously, Lydia looks up at him, trying to make eye contact, and nods her head gently.

"If it's not dangerous, can you, uh… can you show me?"

* * *

"Yeah… sure. Gardener."

Sounded a lot better than "drug dealer." It hurt how cute she was. She didn't even have to try, not like his usual girls; heaps of makeup, fake tans, little outfits that just barely skirted by the dress code. Everything Lydia said and did was genuine to a fault, no guile or pretense to be found. She just didn't have it in her.

He should probably feel bad about teaching her how to smoke, but he didn't. There was only capacity for so much guilt in his ill-used conscience, and weed was harmless.

"Ain't dangerous. I'll show ya how."

Given permission, he once again felt entitled to close the space between them. With a steady hand, he brought the mouth of the pipe up to brush her delectable, kiss-swollen lips.

"Yer gonna wanna suck in when I light, but not too hard or you'll get too much n' choke. Once ya can't suck in no more, hold yer breath. When ya can't hold it no more, let it out smooth as ya can." He leveled her with a serious look, the line of his mouth unflinchingly straight. "Fair warnin'. Yer prolly gonna cough. Everybody does their first time."

With that, he flicked his bic, held his large thumb over the carb, and watched intently as she followed his directions to the letter. She _still _trusted him. Fuck.

"Good girl," he purred as the smoke began to pull through the glass, ready to lathe her in praise and affection again if she was ready to receive it. "Just like that…"

* * *

"Alright..."

Though reluctant to have BJ so close again so soon, Lydia does as she's told, fully aware that she did ask for it. She's nervous, and his seriousness makes it worse, but drawing the smoke into her lungs is fairly easy. It burns her throat. It's thick, acrid and hot, but just as instructed, when her chest feels strained, she stops inhaling. Gingerly she lets go of his pipe and visibly struggles to hold the smoke in – it tastes bad, smells bad, tickles her throat and makes her dizzy – managing around 15 seconds before exhaling, a little panicked.

It doesn't come out smooth. (Though she's obviously trying her best.) When Lydia exhales, spurred on by his thorough instructions and words of praise, she's just absolutely terrified of how much smoke was coming out of her mouth. Her eyes water and she splutters, beginning to choke in her surprise, jerking forward and then regretting it immensely as her brain takes a second to catch up.

"Ah," Lydia gasps, putting her hands on BJ's arm to steady herself, still coughing a little from the assault on her respiratory system. She feels significantly less close to tears, head a little fuzzy, and gazes at BJ, scrunching up her nose. "I didn't like that very much…"

* * *

Frowning sympathetically as she coughed harsh and dry, exactly as he predicted she would, he held her through the fit until she was stable and breathing again. Must have been a reflex.

"Aight, that's 'nuff for you, lightweight."

With another hit, he killed the entire rest of the bowl, letting out a cloud of smoke much larger and smoother than the one she released. The way her nose wrinkled was cute too, like everything she did, and managed to inspire a weak smile in the downtrodden giant.

"Give it a minute. Nobody smokes pot for the smokin' part. They do it for the effects."

Effects of which BJ was feeling pretty much immediately. Everything seemed just a bit simpler now. She wasn't crying anymore. Terrible thoughts were no longer battering through his skull like a pack of wildebeests. In fact, he wasn't thinking about much of anything at all.

Exhaustion was catching up to him. Though he had the build of a titan, he was only human. With a heavy sigh and thud, he plopped back onto the mattress, making the coils squeal in protest.

"Ya don't… have ta stay. If ya don't want. I get it."

He was silent for a long while after offering her this out, deep, steady breaths and shut eyes giving him the appearance of being asleep. Then, he murmured more with a slight slur, brows furrowed just so as if in the midst of an unpleasant dream.

"Didn't mean t'hurt ya… wanted t'make ya feel good… m'sorry…"

* * *

Lydia, tiny and completely unused to the aforementioned effects of weed, suddenly feels very heavy. Sleepiness clouds her brain and sits behind her eyelids like a fog, thoughts and fears settling underneath the shroud. She sits, swaying a little, and watches him as he lays down, wanting so badly to lay on his chest and fall asleep like before. It had been so comfortable… She catches herself moving towards him and stops short, remembering absently that it wasn't really worth the risk. He'd been nice, but not enough for her to forget what he'd done. For a while after he lays down and speaks, she just sits there, thinking slowly about what he'd just said.

He was human. Humans make mistakes… Lydia plops down beside him, curling up around Alice and snuggling into the mattress. She doesn't say anything, keeping her mouth shut in favor of watching his face. He was so … Alive. The sound of his breathing is loud and comforting, steady – it feels like it's grounding her, like without him she'd just… float away.

The way he next speaks, she almost doesn't catch it, drifting slowly into a calm sleep from the warmth and rumble of his presence. Tears well up, big and wet in her eyes. In trying to blink them away, a few spill down her cheeks.

"It's ok," Lydia whispers back, shuffling forward until she can feel his warmth again, radiating on her icy, pale skin. "I'm sorry, too." And then, in the comfort that he really, truly was sorry, she lets her eyes slip shut, falling truly, deeply asleep.


	5. Chapter 5

**IMPORTANT NOTICE: **As of this chapter, the author writing for Lydia has changed to a different but equally talented writer going by the username of **MadamSeshat**. Enjoy!

* * *

Lydia had concluded long ago that one of the worst things about being dead was the inability to dream. When she was alive, pale and weak and bed-bound, she would curl up in her duvet and dream about what it would be like to be healthy, to be able to leave the house, to go outside, to make friends, and go to school. Even just learning to ride a bike. On her worst days, when shakes wracked her body, her joints ached, and her empty stomach cramped in knots, she wished she never, ever had to wake up.

She wished she could do that now, to escape the cramped confines of her house to the outside world in her head. But in death, there were no dreams. Just loss of consciousness, then nothing until the pale light of the rising sun crept through the small attic window. He had moved closer to her in her sleep, pressed right up against her back with his large arm wrapped tight around her middle. He dwarfed her, his hand encompassing almost her whole torso, thumb tickling just over the swell of her breast, little finger grazing her hipbone where her nightdress had ridden up. She didn't think she had ever felt so warm– it was almost comforting enough to push away thoughts of last night in favor of just staying close to him.

But the crusty feeling of dried tears in her eyes and the stickiness down below was a solid reminder of what had happened. What she had done. The worst thing about it was that she didn't even know what it was. What that feeling was. Mama had always told her that no-one was to touch her private area, not even her. That touching down there was bad, disgusting, wrong, and if anyone tried she should say no, scream, and tell her Mama.

But what BJ had done, underneath the confusion and fear, had felt good. Too good. Her cheeks turned red at the memory. It was intense and burned to the point of pain but her body had pressed against his mouth and had moaned and writhed without her consent. Even thinking about it made her rub her thighs together.

Was it meant to feel like that? Surely it wasn't, or Mama wouldn't have warned her against it. It made much more sense that this was another part of her that was just broken. Her eyes filled with tears again, a lump filling her throat at the knowledge that she was disgusting and wrong and how could she disrespect her mama so much as to have done something like that? To feel something like that? She choked down a sob, pressing a hand to her mouth to further suppress the noise. She didn't want to screw up anymore and wake BJ up.

* * *

He was gone before her meek, unnecessary apology could hit his ears. It was better this way. It would only have given the boy more guilt he didn't know how to manage. In the night, their limbs had sought out the other's, tangling and intertwining until his superior mass swallowed her up, turning her into an indiscernible bump below the heavy comforter.

He always got too hot at night, often kicking off the blanket in his sleep to let stagnant air do what it could to cool sweating flesh. Not tonight. Little Lydia's constant source of cool eliminated any need. He awoke from heated dreams to find himself perfectly snug to his deliciously frigid bedmate, curled around her just as she was curled around her little doll, a heavy arm slung around her torso to keep her pressed tight against him. His face was buried in mussed braids, the silken bounty of hair impossibly soft against his stubbled cheek.

She smelt just as delicious as last night and in his post-sleep haze, he grunted, pulling her in tighter and taking a deep huff of that lovely scent; clean and sweet. The soft swell of her bottom pressed against his morning wood, and the dream that was floating away sneakily from his half-awake memory returned in an instant.

He had dreamt of Lydia, a Lydia that wasn't scared of him and didn't cry when he touched her. She was herself, but she wasn't; mature, knew what she wanted, a sexual vixen in the body of an unripened virgin. He was able to grasp onto his mind's invention of what she was wearing in the dreamscape before it eluded him entirely. A stringy little thong and pushup bra that gave her more of a womanly shape, all sinful black lace as though she butchered one of her cute little outfits just to please him.

Tortured, he grunted again— _or was it more of a groan?_— rolling his hips long and hard against her prone form. Still, she continued to sleep. How far gone was she? That cute little babydoll dress had ridden up in her sleep, leaving her soft tummy and back bare against his arm and gut. She wasn't as cold as usual. Now she was more… room temperature, as though she'd been soaking up his warmth all for herself while they slept.

Maybe if he just… if he was _slow… _she wouldn't notice…

BJ's horny lazy musings were shattered by the tiniest quiver of her thin shoulders, giving away that she wasn't asleep at all contrary to his belief. He nearly choked, going rigid in anticipation of enduring yet another girly meltdown over his wandering hands. She was _crying_. _Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck… _ "Lyds… Baby…?" Did she have to look so incredibly fragile, so small and sad and vulnerable? He had no place comforting a creature like this. No right. She needed‒ _deserved_‒ someone more like husband number four's mother. She was a nice grandma while she was around. Made a mean chocolate chip cookie and knitted up a storm. One of the thick, cozy quilts she churned out for him was hastily wrapped around the little shaking thing's shoulders, both to provide comfort and to put more of a solid barrier between her and his guilty erection.

"Don't cry," he hushed in an early morning rasp, at a complete loss. It was too fucking early for this shit. "Wha'ss wrong?"

* * *

Lydia squeaked in surprise as she felt the body behind her move, pressing something hard against the curve of her backside. She froze, hoping he was just stretching in his sleep and she had time to compose herself before he woke up and saw her. She didn't want to agitate him again– not after last night. She was supposed to be endearing herself to him, but instead, she kept messing up– clinging to him one minute, sobbing the next, and somehow giving him signals that made him think he had to… she squeezed her legs together again, forcing herself to push it from her mind.

BJ moved once more, and there was no doubt he was awake now. He pulled away from her, and she held Alice tighter to her chest as she waited for him to tell her to leave, that he had realized that there was something inherently wrong with her and he would no longer humor her presence in his attic. But instead, he just wrapped a thick, handknitted blanket over her shoulders, tucking her in tightly like she was something precious, a fragile treasure that needed to be protected.

Her heart pounded and the tears came faster, though this time from a strange emotion in her chest that she couldn't name. She rolled over and threw herself at him, wrapping her arms around his neck and burying her face in his shoulder. She inhaled the tobacco and earth scent of him and basked in his warmth through the blankets, feeling truly comforted for the first time since she had died.

"I… I'm sorry" she choked out, voice muffled by the way she pressed her face against him. Her tears dripped icy cold onto his skin, leaving phantom trails before evaporating away into the ether.

"I… last night… I made you… and I… something came over me..." She trailed off, knowing she wasn't making much of any sense but not able to string the words together in a way that conveyed the confused tangle of internalized guilt in her head. Her small hands played with the hairs at the nape of his neck absently, twirling them around her fingers

"I didn't mean to… forgive me."

* * *

Without thinking, mind stilly hazy with dream dust, he hugged her close when she gave herself to him, brows furrowed cutely in abject confusion. What was she going on about now? It seemed like every ten minutes she had a new thing to fuss over.

"S'okay," he grumbled dismissively while rubbing her back, vaguely aware that she was talking about their X-rated cuddling the previous night. "I forgive ya."

Not in any mood to dissect all _that_, however, BJ made to sit up and stretch, back popping with a big yawn. His commanding presence and motions set the tone for the conversation. Apparently, he didn't want to discuss it and expected her not to either. Smacking his lips and scratching his hairy gut after coming back from that full-body stretch and yawn combo, he smirked her way once he caught full sight of her hysterics, reaching out to brush a quickly dissipating tear from her icy cheek with his knuckle. She was awful cute like that, all frazzled and stressed out.

Nevertheless, he had shit to do today.

"Cheer up, buttercup! Ain't nothin' t'cry about. You eat food? Want some breakfast? I'm _starvin'_," he threw her a half-cocked grin that read like he was tempted to eat his fill from between her delicious creamy thighs again, but didn't say or do anything more nefarious than that.

"Figured y'could help me unpack all my shit n' stuff, posters n' junk. Help me decide where t'put it all. Give it 'a woman's touch', y'know? Just as long as y'don't break nothin'."

* * *

Lydia melted into his large frame, taking a deep shuddering breath as his hand rubbed up and down her back. Relief radiated from her center at his acceptance of her apology, sleep-slurred though it was. He didn't hate her, and from the gentle way he wiped her tears away, he wasn't repulsed by her very presence.

She offered him a quick smile, biting her lip against any further words as his body language declared the subject closed. Instead, she followed him out of the bed, immediately bending back down to right the duvet and pillows with quick, practiced movements until it looked like no-one had slept in there at all. Mama had been very strict about cleanliness– had to be when Lydia was so prone to becoming ill– and Lydia had learned well.

BJ talked while she made the bed, with a sweet nickname and an emphasis on the word "starving" that she didn't initially catch

"Oh… breakfast," she said, turning back around quickly and tilted her head up to look at him. She froze like a little rabbit in the headlights at the hungry smile on the boy's face. Her cheeks flushed, and her stomach flipped anxiously.

"Um… I can eat," she said, words tripping over themselves as she struggled to get them out "But it doesn't… I can't taste things properly anymore." Her eyebrows furrowed a moment as she licked her lips. "Except…"

She had tasted something last night. Mint and an undefined taste of _him_ as he licked into and dominated her mouth. The significance of such a thing was lost in the confusion of the succeeding events, but now… She pushed the thought from her head quickly in time to catch his next offer.

"I'd love to help! Mama never let me help with the decorating– but I always wanted to. I always thought that when I was older and better, I could maybe persuade her to let me choose my comforter or something."

She was almost jumping up and down in excitement as she talked, eyes bright with innocent, childlike joy. BJ had changed everything about her little home up here, uprooted all of her things, and removed all traces of Mama and her dolls. But this… if he let her help maybe she could have a little control again. Make it hers, even in a small way.

"Where should we start? Are your parents in? I could make you breakfast if you like? Once I'm dressed and everything."

* * *

"Davey's at work, n' Ruth ain't gonna be shakin' off her hangover till well past high noon, so you n' me got this place _aaallllll _to ourselves, baby girl!"

BJ was giddy, excited for once to be settling into a new home, and it was all thanks to his cute, creepy new companion. Her eagerness to do things for him, just to make him happy made it all that much cooler. The prospect of her floating around in that kitchen in a little apron, putting together a big proper meal for him had his flagging erection stiffening back up immediately.

"Mmm… that sounds jus' perfect. Why don't you go on n' get yerself fixed up pretty then fry me some bacon n' pancakes, huh sugar?"

With a smooch on the cheek and a pat on the head, he sent her on her way, fully expecting her to obey without question. He still needed a morning bowl, and a cigarette, and maybe a quick jerk-off if he could work it in before she finished cooking.

"Eggs n' coffee too," he specified, a fresh cigarette already hanging out of the corner of his mouth while he packed his glass pipe. "Over easy."

_Just like you, princess. _

* * *

Lydia froze slightly as he bent down towards her face, but he just pressed a wet, sloppy kiss to her cheek. She wiped the area, trying to make herself look stern but she couldn't pull off the expression whilst feeling so hopeful. Instead, she just nodded as she committed his order to memory, then literally floated out of the room.

This morning was working out so much better than yesterday evening had. He seemed to like her, and she wasn't making stupid mistakes to make him angry again. Wrapping her arms around her cold body, she smiled. She had never really had any friends before outside of Mama and her doctors, but perhaps BJ could be that to her? Her first real friend.

She continued past the door to the basement and into the kitchen, not wanting to ruin her good mood by facing the scary room. The kitchen had been remodeled since the last time she was down here‒ which made sense. She _had_ caused an explosion‒ and it was filled with white appliances and newly cleaned countertops.

Right… so what to do first? She considered this as she re-plaited her hair into twin braids and adorned the black apron hanging on the back of the kitchen door. It swamped her, but after a couple of strategically placed knots, she could get it to cover her nightgown well enough. Floating around the room, she opened random cupboard doors and the fridge until managing to collect a series of utensils and what she believed to be the right ingredients. Then she paused.

Despite her confidence in the attic, she had never actually made… well, _anything _before. Mama never allowed her in the kitchen. She was always too sick, and even when she wasn't, Mama didn't want to tempt fate by exposing her to any more food than she had to. But Lydia had watched some cooking programs, and before she lost her temper and banished herself to the attic she had seen others cook and was sure she could replicate it. It couldn't be that hard.

An indeterminate amount of time later, she realized her confidence was misplaced. It started with the flour– which apparently wouldn't come out of the bag until tipped too far and then it would all come out in a cloud of particles that settled over her hair and the dark counter and the floor like snow. Then, it was the eggs that wouldn't crack enough or would shatter on the side of the bowl, getting shell in the mixture and goo on the counter. And then the batter was lumpy and crunchy and positively not the consistency she could recall from TV shows. Still, Lydia had some hope at that point that maybe she could save the situation.

But then came the actual cooking part. She managed to get the new stove turned on but found it was rather difficult to gauge temperature when one could put their hand into the fire and not feel a thing. The first pancake was burned. So was the second. The third wouldn't come unstuck from the pan, so she left it in the sink and found another. The fourth ended up on the floor when she tried to flip it over. The fifth would barely cook at all. Frustrated tears were blurring her vision as she scowled at her concoction. Even her current attempt, which so far was cooking without a hitch, wasn't looking like any pancake Mama had made her when she was alive.

She wasn't very good at cooking, she realized, turning out her 'pancake' onto a plate, and adding bacon into the pan. It sizzled and spat at her, adding bacon fat to the mess now on the front of the apron, obscuring the raunchy phrase she'd not paid any attention to when she first put it on.

BJ seemed so happy that she would cook for him, and this was supposed to be proof that she was good wife material. That he should think of her in _that _way, and not just as the little kid haunting his bedroom. She flipped the bacon over absently with her fingers, noting that she had at least managed to not burn that part yet. Maybe she could find some bread and make a sandwich? It wasn't what he asked for, but perhaps it would at least be edible? Deciding to go with her new plan, she abandoned the bacon on the stove to start searching through the cupboards again.

* * *

Quite happily, BJ smoked his cigarette and marijuana, lounging lazily back in the center of his bed while his new pet ghost readied his breakfast. _This was the life_. How much of his room could he convince her to arrange while he sat back and played video games? _Oh yeah..._

Lydia sounded solidly busy downstairs. If Ruth roused, she would just assume it was him fucking around and making all that noise. If she went to investigate and got a scare? Well, then that would serve her right for being such a condescending bitch when he tried to tell her about their ghost problem before.

"_Problem?" _Did he even think of her that way? Time to scratch that completely. Lydia was the best thing that had happened to him in a long damn time. His thoughts couldn't help but revolve around her as he took his sweet time prepping for the day. After adding a new layer of tar to his lungs, his meaty palm drifted past the waistband of his pants. He took his time stroking himself to completion until a thick stream of cum landed on his furry belly. Throughout, he thought about _Lydia_‒ about kissing her, and licking her, and how _good _and _tight _that sweet little pussy was... how _fuckin' nice_ it would feel to hike those creamy thighs wide and just split her open on his cock. That's the mental image that threw him over the edge. When he was done, he wiped himself clean, threw his dirty clothes on the ground, and dressed in a pair of worn jeans, a _Misfits_ tee, and a green flannel with many cigarette burns in the soft material.

Surely, she would have made a dent in getting his food ready by now. With thundering steps, he descended to the ground floor only to be met with absolute carnage when he passed the threshold into the kitchen.

"The _fuck_…?"

It was a warzone! Countless eggshells and messy broken yolks were splattered across the floor and counters and _ceiling_. Where before there was an empty sink void of any dirty dishes, both were now filled up with utensils and mixing bowls and pans‒ the many failed attempts of her efforts to make him breakfast. At least the coffee looked okay.

Well. He wasn't cleaning this shit up. "Ruth is gonna be _pissed_, Lyds."

Chuckling sadistically, he sipped at a mug of black coffee and watched like a predator from the bar as she stumbled over preparing a meal for him. _So fuckin' cute_. Once he had a lovingly made BLT sitting in front of him, he flashed a fangy grin and pat the top of her head in approval.

"Good girl. Next time, don't bite off more n' you can chew. If ya can't do somethin', say so n' if I know how t'do it, I'll show ya how. 'Kay?"

* * *

Lydia had just floated down from finding a loaf of thick-sliced bread when she heard the unmistakable sound of footsteps. She looked around the kitchen, eyes wide as though seeing the mess for the first time. There was no way that she was going to clean this up before he would see it, and he was going to be so upset with her.

She shrunk into herself, shoulders hunched and unwanted tears clinging to her long eyelashes as she stared at the floor, unable to bring herself to see his disappointment as he stood in the doorway. There was an echoing moment of silence as he took in the scene.

"I'm sorry," she whimpered. "I'll clean it all up, I promise. Mama never even let me near the kitchen because I was ill, but I'd watched programs on TV and I didn't think it would be this hard. I just wanted to impress you," she rambled anxiously, before biting her tongue to stop from embarrassing herself any further. She wiped her eyes quickly, finally looking up at him, fiddling with the hem of her nightdress. He looked faintly amused like she was a pet who'd done something cute. It certainly wasn't angry or irritated like she imagined it would be.

It gave her the confidence to run back over to the bacon, pulling it off the heat in a way that would have burned a living, breathing person. She grabbed some bread, and some salad items out of the fridge and put together a sandwich, laboring over the simple meal more than strictly necessary to make up for her mistake. The BLT looked a lot more edible than anything else she'd attempted that morning.

As Lydia brought the plate over to him, she felt herself beaming with pride. Was this how Mama felt whenever she cooked for Daddy and her? This feeling of achievement, like she'd finally done something right? She flushed, almost wriggling at the praise he bestowed upon her.

"Okay – I will. Thank you, BJ," she said, offering him a sweet smile. In a fit of bravery, she leaned forward and gave him a quick peck on his rough cheek, just like Mama used to do sometimes for Daddy when he came home from work for dinner. Immediately after, she pulled back and ran towards the kitchen.

"I'll start washing up."

And she did, letting the teenager eat his sandwich as she began with the dishes in the sink then methodically working across the rest of the room, innocently giving the perverted teenager a perfect view up her loose nightgown as she floated to clean the ceiling, and an arguably better one as she went down on her hands and knees to scrub the floor, dress riding up to show her white panties. By the time she finished, the kitchen was sparkling clean and Lydia was a bit sweaty, breathing with exertion despite being dead. She knelt up, turning to look at BJ.

"Is that okay?" she asked him, biting her lip anxiously "I don't want to get you into any trouble, BJ."

* * *

Oh, _fuck _yeah. BJ could get used to this. He was downright _spoiled_. The teenager was content to remain throned up like a King at the kitchen bar while his pet ghost serviced him. The only thing that would have made the experience complete was a beer, a striptease, and a blowjob. Speaking of...

"Grab me a beer, honey?"

She didn't hesitate, wrapping little fingers around the cold bottleneck on the top shelf in a way that made the flesh between his thighs burn.

"Mm," he licked his lips after gulping down a third of the bottle in one swig. It was only ten o'clock in the morning, but it's not like there were any responsible adults around to supervise. "_Thanks_. Yer a gem, Lyds, really."

He considered leaving a bite of sandwich behind for her to try but decided it was too tasty and she didn't eat food anyway and it was _his_ sandwich, why the fuck should he have to share with some dead brat? A twinge of guilt hit him as he indulged the last speck of it, watching with a perpetually hard cock as she scrubbed the floor and gave him one hell of a show. Not quite a striptease or a blowjob, but it got the job done.

Let's see… he was stoned. Check. Full? Check. Busted a nut? Check. Buzzed? Check. To top it all off, all the doting from such sweet eye candy had his chubby, stubbly cheeks just a little flushed with excitement. She crawled his way then, seeking further approval and rubbing up against his leg. Heart melting at the cuteness, he leaned back in his chair, thighs spreading, and rested a heavy palm on top of her head.

_Is that okay?_

"That's perfect, babes. Yer great." As cute as she looked simpering at his feet, he wanted her closer, and so scooped her up off the ground easily with one arm, settling her on his leg.

"Y'could teach my Ma a thing or two." This was false praise. Ruth had perfected cooking his bacon down to a science, but Ruth didn't require any more training, not the way Lydia did.

"N' I told ya. I don't _get_ in trouble. Nobody's the boss o' _me_. Wanna help me unpack my boxes now? Since I moved all yer stuff? S'only fair, cupcake."

* * *

Lydia was completely oblivious to any of the unsavory thoughts going through BJ's head as she obediently interrupted her cleaning to get him a beer out of the fridge. She wasn't entirely sure that it was a good idea to drink this early in the morning, but she wasn't about to argue with him when there was still pancake batter on the ceiling. Anyway, her own diet hadn't exactly been a good representation of normal meals, and Mama used to tell Daddy off for drinking at all times of the day, so perhaps she didn't have a good comparison for what was normal?

She crawled over to rest against his leg when she was done cleaning, allowing herself to enjoy the warmth of him. A fire had no sensation for her anymore, but somehow this man felt like a furnace against her icy skin, his hand burning against her cheek in the nicest of ways. She had forgotten what it truly meant to be warm, as much as she'd forgotten how comforting human contact could be.

She squeaked as he scooped her up with one arm, stiffening when he deposited her on his leg and held her. She was so small compared to him. If she wanted to physically escape his grasp against his will, it would be almost impossible for her without phasing through. His grip was tight as she curled up against his belly, flushing at the latest in a list of nicknames he was doting on her. _Cupcake. Babes, honey, sugar._

"I'm sure I'm not as good as your Mama but thank you," she said, cheeks still pink, "and I can help you unpack. I just need to get into some day clothes."

Lydia looked down at her nightdress. The apron protected most of it, but there were still some spots of flour clinging to the black material, along with a little in her hair. Perhaps a bath was in order as well.

But to do that required returning to the basement, a place she was banned from in life and now terrified of in death. She braved it the previous evening, deeming it the lesser of two evils when faced with the other option of an angry teenager that scared and threatened her. But BJ had been lovely to her so far that morning, giving her much less incentive to face the dark room. His kindness made her wonder if last night had just been a big misunderstanding. His fury and violence towards her came from an understandable fear of the ghost in his room, and what he had done later to her… whatever that was had clearly gone from him now. She felt much safer, safe enough to risk a small request.

"Could you… could you maybe go to the basement with me?" she asked, leaning back with her hands resting on his shoulders so she could give him the wide, puppy-dog eyes that always had her Daddy wrapped around her little finger‒ they never worked with Mama, unfortunately, but she worked with what she had.

"You put my stuff right at the back."

* * *

His brow twitched. A moment later, his biceps flexed, chin rising just the slightest bit while his chest puffed with a sharp inhale. She needed his _help_ going down to the _dark, scary basement_. The ghost. It was tragic and hilarious and so _fucking_ cute, he didn't know whether to laugh or kiss her and so settled on brandishing a dastardly grin while inflating like a balloon, ego thoroughly stroked. BJ could be her hero. For a little bit at least.

"Sure thing, doll." In one easy motion, he stood, slinging her around to his back so she could hang on around his thick neck and he could retain use of his arms on his way down to the basement. "Ain't nothin' t'be scared of down there. Maybe some black widows… n' yer dead! Yer the scariest thing in the whole damn house!"

Sensing that maybe she was taking that the wrong way, he balmed the sting just a bit.

"But I _like_ scary things. And dead things! Spiders… Shit like that…"

_Smooth, Benny_. "Some o' my friends call me Beetle cause uh…" For once, BJ found himself embarrassed by his playground shenanigans. Sweet, pretty, polite little Lydia would be aghast at what he had to say. Nevertheless, he told her, hating how low it made him feel to do so. "I'll… Uh. _Eat bugs_. For money. Worms n' beetles n' shit. Ten bucks here, twenty there. Not a bad gig, all things considered…"

A weak laugh died on an awkward cough in the dark of the basement. BJ hadn't bothered pulling the light switch on the way down, originally having planned on pranking her somehow, unable to resist temptation. _Still could_, the story had just left him vulnerable here with her in a way the brazenness of doing it for an audience never had. He was more inclined toward niceness than nastiness. A broad hand found her calf slipping around his side and grasped it, helped her in holding herself up against him.

"Still scared or ya think I can letcha down to get dressed?"

* * *

Lydia beamed at BJ as he agreed to her request, taking it as confirmation that she was right about him. He was a good guy, and the previous evening was a fluke brought on by the stress of meeting a real ghost. She wrapped her arms around his neck to give him a hug

"Thank you!" She relaxed and went pliable, so she was easy to manipulate as he swung her around to his back. She wrapped her legs around his waist, her heels digging into his soft belly as she steadied herself. He started walking them to the basement, talking to her all the while.

Although he couldn't see her, she scowled at the back of his head as he said she was scary, her little hands tightening in the fabric of his shirt. He was making fun of her, she was sure of it. She knew she wasn't frightening. She was small, and scrawny and looked young for her fourteen years of age. She was about as intimidating as a kitten, and she was very aware of it. He didn't need to patronize her like that, and just as she was thinking that he wasn't so mean…

She opened her mouth to petulantly demand her let her down when he continued… her words died in her throat. She hadn't expected him to suddenly talk about himself like that, and that little laugh… was he embarrassed?

"In Ghana, some people eat termites. And they eat crickets in Thailand. It's just the Western World that has a stigma against eating bugs." She paused, voice gentle as she carefully picked her words to try and make him feel better. "I always wanted to go traveling. I wanted to take photographs…"

She trailed off as they headed down the stairs, BJ not even bothering to reach for the light switch as they entered the basement. Her breath caught as she looked around the room, the long shadows making taloned hands that reached out for her, the pipes growling and snarling and the piles of boxes and detritus offering ample dark corners for things to hide.

Daddy had once told her a story about a monster that lived in the basement. She couldn't quite remember it but she remembered Mama being furious. She said Lydia was too little for tales like that, and _couldn't he see she was terrified, and isn't she sick enough without you filling her head with nightmares?_ All week, Mama had sat with her, and reminded her not to think about the dark, scary basement, and that Lydia never needed to go near there again because Mama was here for her. By the end of that week, Lydia had decided that she would never go near there again.

It wasn't that Lydia believed in monsters. She knew logically that there was nothing in there with sharp claws and teeth, but it didn't stop her from squeezing her eyes shut and burying her face into BJ's neck. His hand was warm on her leg, and she squeezed her arms tighter until she was almost choking him

_Still scared?_

Her eyes opened. She didn't want to seem like a complete baby, and she came here last night‒ by closing her eyes, floating to a box, and grabbing whatever was on the top. So she carefully let herself be placed on the floor, still gripping his hand, holding it with both of hers as she stayed pressed against his leg.

"Let's just grab something... I need a shower… I can change upstairs." she said quickly, looking at her stocking covered feet so as not to focus on any particular patch of darkness.

* * *

"Dead people need to shower…? Huh…" Brows furrowed, he leaned down to where he knew she was settled in the dark, taking a long deliberate sniff in her general direction, snorting practically as he huffed in her scent. Clean linens and dried herbs still. Couldn't even smell the bacon from his sandwich, or leftover cooties from him rubbing his sweaty palms all over her.

"Smell fine t'me, but whatever floats yer boat."

It did not go beyond his notice that she didn't want him to let her down, didn't want to stray too far from his side, and pointedly did not answer his question. This was a fun change from the previous night when he stalked her scared glowy little body through the shadows in the attic and made her let go that _yummy_ shriek. For now, he was content to play the hero. "C'mon, lil' bit, ain't got all day." He nudged her toward a box he remembered placing himself because of the godawful bright yellow lace monstrosity sticking out the top. Leery of letting her pick something so ugly, he proceeded to pick through the box himself before she could have a say. She was _his_ doll, _his_ ghost. It seemed reasonable to BJ that she should just wear whatever he wanted her to.

"Here," he pulled out one of the less complex dresses, this one in powder blue with black ribbon and lace detailing and _only one _petticoat. "I like this 'un."

He did, and not because the color would bring out the blue-black in her pretty soft hair or any pussy shit like that. Nope. Nothing like at all. Smirking nastily to himself at how short it was when he held it up to her‒ _like a pastel french maid's outfit_‒ he returned to digging through the same box, more eagerly now, looking for something.

"Where's yer panties n' socks n' stuff?"

His doll needed accessories.

* * *

Lydia's brow furrowed for a second– she'd never considered if she _truly needed _to shower. It was just something she continued to do religiously from the day she reappeared in her attic. The water made her feel almost warm, and the familiarity let her pretend she was still alive so she wasn't going to give it up, even if it wasn't a necessity of her routine anymore.

"Thank you," she said politely as he reassured her that she didn't smell bad. She wondered if she should return the compliment– he did have a… particularly masculine smell, underneath the scent of tobacco and weed. She thought she rather liked it. Chickening out though, she instead remained tucked against his side as they ventured further into the basement.

He started diving into the box for her once they were close, and she passively let him choose an outfit, though did open her mouth to protest as he lifted the bright yellow, frilly abomination. She wasn't entirely certain what Mama had been thinking when she purchased it. It made her look even more sallow and washed out than normal. Additionally, it was hardly Lydia's preferred color scheme. Mama seemed to like it though, and Lydia had been forced into it for many doctor's visits.

Luckily, BJ seemed to think the same and he pushed it down further into the box. Instead, he pulled out one of her older dresses. It was a little small for her now – a bit too short and a little tight around her waist and bust but she didn't have the heart to tell him so. This felt oddly familiar somehow, comforting almost. It was a little like Mama had come back, except not because Mama's eyes had never made her feel tingly or flushed like BJ's did when he held the outfit up to her and smirked.

She looked away quickly, and pointed at another box, dragging him by the hand to it so she didn't have to go even that short distance alone. She knew from Mama, that she wasn't supposed to let boys near her underthings, but she didn't think BJ would take no for an answer. So she split the difference by going into the box herself and fishing out the pretty pair of blue lace panties that had been bought to go with the dress. Again, they were a little small for her now– apparently despite still looking very straight and childlike, her hips and bust had filled out a little compared to when she was a preteen. Giving them to him to hold, she bent down to hunt for the corresponding black thigh high socks with a little blue bow on the outside edge.

"I think I have a matching headband and ribbons in that box over there…" she said, depositing her find into his arms and grabbing a little vest to put under the ensemble. She never developed enough to warrant a real bra, though she'd always wanted one

"Mama liked having complete matching sets. Alice has one too…"

Suddenly, Lydia realized she left the doll in the kitchen, leaning her on the counter after all the fuss of cooking. Wrapping her arms around herself, she felt very alone despite knowing it was childish.

"Oh… I've forgotten her."

* * *

BJ was regretting not turning the light on. If he had, he would have been better able to distinguish the sweet shape of her backside as she bent in the dark to dig through the box and find some pretty lacy underthings to wear for him. Wasn't he going to trick her or something? Make her all cute and scared again? Squinting through the shadows, trying to catch a glimpse of her panties made it hard to remember. There wasn't any need to bully Lydia for a laugh. When it occurred to her that she forgot her precious little dolly, her demeanor changed altogether‒ skinny arms wrapped tight around her frail torso, bottom lip pouted out just so while her big eyes got impossibly bigger‒ and BJ realized he didn't have the heart for it anymore. She was already so shaken, anything else would be overkill.

"C'mon, honey," he purred calm and gentle, pulling her as well as her fresh clothes back into his arms for the journey upstairs. She was short enough, hauling her around seemed easier than waiting for her to float after him. It didn't hurt that this gave him an excuse to feel up her perpetually smooth legs. An extremely fine dusting of peach fuzz coated soft porcelain skin, informing that the poor thing met her end before ever learning how to shave her legs. He didn't mind. It was sweet and _different _and spoke to her innocence.

"Do we gotta getcha a night light?" He chortled at the thought‒ a _ghost_ afraid of the dark‒ unable to stop from rubbing his cheek against the top of her head affectionately while carrying her upstairs toward the light. "S'okay. I like sleepin' with the TV on most nights anyways."

She was easy to talk to. He found he didn't have much of a filter when it came to the pretty little spirit, clumsy lips spilling whatever thought popped into his brain. He deposited her on the counter in the bathroom before pointing out which of Ruth's expensive soaps he thought smelled the best. He would have to get her soap of her own if she was going to insist on needless baths and showers. Couldn't have her running around smelling like his whore mother.

"Need me ta help ya outta this thing?" He offered _completely innocently_, a sausage-like finger toying with the large bow tied at her back‒ his own secret dead lolita. "All them buttons n' ribbons… Looks _awful _complicated. Could just rip it off if ya want…"

* * *

Lydia's thoughts were spiraling nonsensically as she processed that she was without Alice or any of her other companions. Logically, she knew it made no sense, but she felt unsafe, and so, so desperately alone. _Utterly alone‒ _as she had been for so many years now without Mama or Daddy. With people moving in and through the house with no-one even able to see her. To touch her. To reassure her. Alone in the dark basement. Dark attic. Alone. Alone. Alone.

She was wrenched from the impending panic attack by BJ pulling her back against him. His arms were tight around her and the constant sound of his heartbeat was reassuring as she was pressed against his chest. This time, the feel of his fingers rubbing up and down her thighs felt grounding, the contact making her feel less isolated, despite the underlying intentions that she could sense but didn't understand.

She took a deep, unnecessary breath and concentrated on pushing away the unwanted thoughts that threatened to suffocate her

"I'm not scared of the dark," she insisted adamantly, which was only a bit of a lie. "I… daddy would tell me stories about the monster in the basement… and Mama would tell him off for scaring me." She smiled as he nuzzled the top of her head with a stubbled cheek. He was so nice to her, so gentle as he carried her to safety like a knight in shining armor. Or like a prince from the cartoon's Mama used to put on for her.

He placed her on the bathroom counter, pointing out some very fancy looking toiletries.

"These smell really nice," she said, holding up a couple of the bottles to her nose. "When I was alive, I was allergic to lots of different soaps, so I had to use plain ones. Mama had to order them in special. At least being dead means I don't have to worry about having an EpiPen nearby."

She slipped off the counter, taking BJ's recommendations and placing them on the rim of the bath. She felt his fingers on the back of her dress and turned around sharply

"Don't _rip _it," she said, sounding mortally offended at the very idea, only realizing that he was probably joking too late… probably. Her hands smoothed down the sides of the outfit, straightening it out a bit. There were very few dresses in her collection that were zipped, or easily accessed. Part of her routine in the morning was Mama choosing her outfit and spending time tying her into the ensemble and brushing out her hair. It was Lydia and Mama's time– a quiet moment before all the fuss of medications and doctor's appointments and trying to find something that wouldn't upset her sensitive stomach.

Now Mama wasn't here, Lydia had learned to do her own dresses‒ aided by an impressive flexibility that death had bestowed upon her. But she sort of missed that routine. She considered him– her scruffy prince. He seemed so eager to help her. Mama would understand this, wouldn't she? After all, Lydia had already done the unthinkable last night so this was nothing in comparison. And… she didn't want to be alone yet. Not so soon after the basement.

"If you're gentle, you could help me undo the ties," she conceded, turning back around so he could see the crisscrossing ribbons and fastenings that held the nightdress loosely to her torso, face flushing a delicate pink. "No looking. Mama said I'm not meant to let boys see me undressed so… you need to leave once you're done."

* * *

He practically growled at the insistence he leave after undressing her, riled by the challenge. What would she do if he decided he didn't want to leave? What if he just kept on undressing her after he was done untying the pretty little bow and loosening the silky little ribbons? The brushes of skin-on-skin contact he was allotted while performing the task she permissed were _so_ soft and cool to the touch, reminding him painfully of his exploits with her the previous night.

His cock pulsed, straining against his jeans, mouth drying at the remembrance that she would be sharing his bed _again _that night. Suddenly, BJ couldn't wait for the day to be over and it wasn't even noon yet. His big mitts were clumsy and unpracticed pulling at the laces. This was delicate work for an ogre like him, grunting and huffing while he worked as if he thought he would be getting some kind of reward after completing this kindly offered favor and was impatient for the payout.

Eventually, taking much longer and doing more damage to the gown than little Lydia would have, the ribbon hung loose and the fabric at the back of her dress parted to reveal once more to him a pure, unblemished canvas of mouthwatering flesh. Even in broad daylight, she _glowed_, entrancing him to not even bother pretending as if he was inclined to honor her wishes. He "looked" alright. More than that, he _touched_, greedily splaying his large, calloused palm and fingers right in the center of her shoulder blades, just feeling her. His breaths were audibly faster, harsher. For a split-second, he was alarmed at the sight of her missing in the bathroom mirror‒ _his hand pressed against nothing, looking like a stupid street mime_‒ but he quickly recovered from the shock in favor of savoring the quiet caress.

"Yer beautiful, Lyds." His thumb moved in small circles, taking what he could where he could. "Yer Ma was jus' tryin' to protect ya, but that's my job now." It was. Sudden irrational rage pulsed at the back of his head at the mere thought of someone else bringing her any kind of harm. She had already hurt so much for such a little thing. "S'not bad t'let me look at ya. I _like_ lookin' at ya."

His tone sounded slimy, even to him, and he swallowed excess saliva back with a grimace‒ as if swallowing the filth he meant to corrupt her with. What kind of sick fucking God would drop this angel in his lap for him to take advantage of without any threat of consequence? It wasn't right. Why wasn't she in Heaven? Such a place must not exist for her to be there with him in that bathroom.

Tragic.

"Y'sure ya don't need anythin' else?"

* * *

BJ had clearly never tried to handle anything so delicate as the silk ribbons of her nightgown. His fingers kept pulling at the lace, tightening and loosening in equal measure and "accidentally" brushing his hands along her back as he huffed in annoyance. Yet he still patiently completed his task, until Lydia could feel the air against her cool skin.

She wasn't surprised when his hand spread across her back, hot and unyielding. Did he have it in his nature to do anything else? He always seemed to be looking at her with an intensity she didn't understand but just _knew _had to do with how he kissed her last night, and he was always finding reasons to touch her. His thumb stroked gently over her shoulder blade.

Her breath caught in her throat, body trembling as though she were cold and her cheeks flushed. She was overwhelmed with the realization that she wouldn't be able to stop him if he wanted to stay, just like she couldn't stop his head between her legs the night before or control the feelings that he elicited in her. She was so tiny compared to him, so helpless.

Her eyes fell closed, perhaps in resignation, as she listened to him croon at her. She wanted to tell him that she wasn't beautiful– she was cute perhaps, in the same way that baby animals were cute. Beautiful was reserved for the models in the front of fashion magazines, or on the TV. People in grown bodies, who weren't scrawny and short and… like her. Her body tensed with anxiety. She didn't know what was going to happen next, what he wanted from her but she knew without a shadow of a doubt that he was going to take it.

Then he gave her an out.

"You… you need to go," she said, wrapping her arms around herself to keep the dress up as she spun around to look up at him. When had her voice become so breathy, so unsure? When had she bitten her lip swollen, or started to feel a strange throbbing between her legs? When had she become so afraid?

She wasn't sure what had done it – perhaps the mixture of terrified confusion in her plea, but he listened to her and left the bathroom. As he closed the door, she collapsed down onto the floor, letting the dress fall from her shoulders.

"Oh Mama… what do I do?" She asked the empty room, listening to the silence that replied. She stayed there for what could have been seconds or minutes, or perhaps days until she could finally bring herself to stand. Looking at her lack of reflection in the mirror, she wondered what it was he saw in her. Biting her lip, a hand came to rest on her chest and felt the absence of a heartbeat. What was it that drew him to touch her like this?

Hesitantly, she ran her hand down, over the slight swell of her breasts, tracing the hollows of her ribcage and further to the flat plane of her stomach, the divots of her hips. The skin was ice cold, and almost perfectly smooth, muscles tensing as she found ticklish spots and other sensitive areas. Pausing, she summoned courage before letting her hand slip between her legs to where she felt the low hum of heat was still centered. The silken, wet flesh felt… sensitive, but not like when BJ had run his fingers over her, tongue on her mouth and neck as she begged and burned and snapped and lost herself completely for the first time, different to when he devoured her as she cried for him to stop. She removed her hand sharply, feeling a much stronger ache between her legs and sharp jolts where she was rubbing an exquisitely sensitive area of her anatomy. Her fingers glistened as she stared at them in shock, and she realized she was panting slightly. Choking down a sob, she fled into the shower, setting the water as hot as it would go.

"I'm sorry, Mama," she whispered, resting her hands on the tiled wall so she couldn't use them to touch any part of her body. She was hyper-aware of every burning drop of water on her body as it washed over her, hiding the tears she sobbed.

She stayed in the shower well past the time she normally did, until the chill was completely gone from her skin and she was almost at body temperature. Pulling on her new outfit as quickly as she could, she contorted her body to sort out the ribbons by herself. It was certainly as short as she feared it would be, and almost tight enough to give her the illusion of having a waist. She tugged at the skirt a little, before wrapping her hair up in one of the smaller towels and heading back towards BJ's room.

She knocked cautiously before heading inside, eyes kept to the floor. Her mouth was dry when she said, "Mama and Daddy never touched me like you do."

It sounded like it was supposed to be a question or at least lead into one but instead trailed off into a timid statement, barely audible as she stayed pressed against the door.

* * *

After leaving his precious little roommate to take her useless shower, tempted as he was to push her further, BJ made short work of unpacking his television, Xbox, video games, and nothing else. Once they were hooked up and ready to game, he got good and comfy in bed with the controller, ready to waste the rest of his day on obliterating alien scum.

Lydia could unpack everything else. Give her something to do while he was at school. _School_. His stomach twisted at the thought. Even before Lydia, he was not looking forward to his first day at Mister Butterfield's School for Faggots, but now he was especially put out. Like a spoiled child with a new toy, all he wanted to do was sit at home and play with her, not go to some boring prissy all-boys school and waste his time learning shit he wasn't ever going to use anyway.

BJ didn't know what he wanted to be when he "grew up"‒ he was already there as far as his anatomy was concerned‒ but he knew that he didn't want to fall victim to the college scam and waste good money on four more years of educational slavery. Maybe he could work on cars... test video games... they paid people to do that, right?

Right as he sniped an alien invader, splashing green and purple brain matter all over the screen, Lydia made her presence known with a disturbing statement that sent tobacco smoke roiling against his lungs, a harsh cough interrupting his playing while blue-green eyes watered.

_"Good!"_

Gathering himself, he regarded her on the opposite end of the room with perplexion, brows furrowed deep while his round cheeks darkened with sudden unreasonable anger.

"_Jesus fuckin' Christ_, they _better_ not have!"

Her short, miserable life had clearly been tragic enough without heaping incestual sexual abuse on top. What kind of relationship did Lydia think they had to be saying things like that to him?

"Shit, kid... I ain't yer fuckin' _Dad_. I'm yer _boyfriend!" _

The declaration popped out before he could stop, _think_, and filter what he wanted to say. The angry red color darkening his cheeks took on a pinker hue and he suddenly found his video game _quite_ interesting indeed. Did he want Lydia to be his girlfriend? Or did he just like having a pet?

"Start on them boxes over there," he directed, _needing_ her to stop floating there and staring at him like she was thinking bad things. "Ask me if ya dunno where t'put somethin'."


End file.
